REPEAT OFFENDER
by
Joe Doe
THE GOVERNOR VISITS THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE FROM "ONE QUESTION TOO
MANY" TO LEARN WHY THE COUNTY PRISON IS SO PROFITABLE. UNBEKNOWNST
TO HIM, HIS BEAUTIFUL AND VERY EMBARRASSED WIFE HAD HAD A MEMORABLE
VISIT WITH THIS SHERIFF MANY YEARS BEFORE....
Part 1
"Please, Jim, I don't understand why we have to visit HERE," the
beautiful socialite whined. "There are so many OTHER jails...."
"Simple, my dear," the governor replied. "You head up that
goody-goody Women's Prison Reform group, and the Sheriff runs
the most successful women's prison in the country. Last year his
county prison farm for women made more money than any prison in
the world!"
Cynthia frowned as she nervously watched the state trooper close
her limousine door and usher the party to the front door of the
Sheriff's office. As a political wife, she spent a lot of time
visiting dumps, but this trip to the Sheriff's office filled her
with an almost indescribable feeling of panic.
Although the thought of the Sheriff's office horrified her, she
consoled herself with thoughts of the immediate future. Her
knucklehead husband would be off on his junket to Europe soon,
and she would have four weeks to rest up in the Governor's Mansion
before his return. It would be a month of tanning by the pool in
her tiny bikini and ordering beefy state troopers to fetch her
drinks with little umbrellas. Living off the idiot taxpayers was
even better than living off her dim-bulb spouse.
But today wasn't one of the good days. As she prepared to enter
the office, Cynthia froze. Her mind flashed back to another
beautiful morning years before, when she had stopped at this very
Sheriff's office to report the license number of a drunk driver who
had almost run her off the road. She had strolled into the office
as an innocent and carefree college student.
But she had staggered out the front door as a shackled and chained
prison inmate.
The Sheriff didn't keep Cindy long; he just needed temporary help
for picking the crops and "entertaining" the scores of migrant
workers who flooded the area for the harvest.
She shuddered as she recalled the skimpy tank top and denim
short-shorts she had worn during her long days in the fields.
But that outfit was like a suit of armor compared to the clothes
she had been forced to wear while trolling for "customers" at the
truck stop....
Was it any wonder that she stood in the doorway, frozen, staring
at the shiny metal doorknob that she had first turned so many years
before?
"For Pete's sake, Cynthia, open the door, already." She awoke from
her daze as she heard her husband's puzzlement and irritation. In
response, she reached for the knob.
It had been almost 10 years since she had been released, and she
had never told anyone, least of all her husband, about her
humiliating three months on the prison farm. As far as her husband
was concerned, her bleeding heart concern for the plight of female
prisoners was a silly aberration in her otherwise staunchly
conservative beliefs. Not that it mattered much; her goody-goody
committees brought in swing voters, and he had no intention of ever
enacting any of her sappy reform proposals.
She straightened her crisp navy blue jacket and strode
confidently into the Sheriff's office. As a naïve college
coed, she had been easy pickings for the redneck Sheriff. But
now she was the wife of the most powerful politician in the state.
If anyone should be scared, she told herself, it was the Sheriff.
Besides, it had been a long time ago. She doubted that the Sheriff
even remembered her. She assured herself that she had nothing to
fear. She was the First Lady of the State; her husband was with
her, and the state troopers would shoot anyone who laid a finger
on her.
Cindy, the terrified college coed who had been led out of the
office in shackles to face an ordeal of shame and humiliation
on the brutal prison farm no longer existed. Cynthia was the
one in charge now.
But her resolve was quickly challenged. There it was. She had
not thought about it in years -- except for the occasional
pulse-pounding, soggy-sheet nightmare. She gaped as she stared
at the medical exam table.
She couldn't believe that, after all these years, the exact same
exam table was still sitting in the exact same place. The gleaming
stirrups were still spread wide, and the table was directly in
front of the large picture window facing the street. The well
cared-for table looked as good as new. But she knew that the
stirrups in particular had received countless hours of use....
Cynthia clenched her teeth. After all these years, the huge window
still had a curtain rod...but no curtain! Amused pedestrians could
still stop to watch the humiliating details of each and every
cavity search. The women, most of whom were guilty only of trivial
misdemeanors, were stripped naked and probed directly in front of
the window for everyone to see....
Despite the millions in illicit gains that had been funneled
through the Sheriff's office, apparently there still wasn't
enough money for a measly curtain!
Entering a time warp, she walked slowly to the table and ran her
fingers over the shiny metal stirrup. She recalled how surprised
she had been the first time she had seen the gynecological exam
table sitting in the middle of the office. She had assumed that
the table was in the process of being moved somewhere more
private...until she noticed that it had been bolted to the floor.
At the time, she hadn't understood the sly smiles of the male
deputies who watched the confused coed inspect the table and the
curtainless shower stall. She didn't understand why the deputies
were whispering...or why the small crowd of smiling men that had
formed outside the picture window was leering at her.
She knew the male mind well enough to deduce what they were
thinking. But she was there to report a crime; the oddly
positioned exam table had nothing to with HER. As soon as the
Sheriff got off the phone, she would tell him about the drunk
driver and leave. Maybe she would even get a reward....
The governor's wife continued to run her fingers over the cool
metal stirrups. The shiny steel glistened menacingly in the light
and her toes curled as she recalled the feel of the icy metal on
her dainty bare feet.
She nervously toyed with her pearl necklace as she stared at the
small table next to the concrete shower area. It contained a large
jar of lubricant, a box of exam gloves, and a device like a green
fire extinguisher, which had once been used to delouse the wife of
the most powerful man in the state.
Hearing some chuckling, she turned. Several men had gathered in
the street in front of the picture window and were now watching
her examine the devices that had been used to humiliate her so long
ago. She frowned. The crowd's festive demeanor made it the twin
of the crowd that had watched her humiliating search years before.
She glared back angrily as the chatty men casually ogled her tight
bottom and long slender legs. She nervously ran her hand over her
expensive wool jacket as if to assure herself that she was still
dressed....
******************************
Cynthia remembered how the amused spectators had leered at her as
the Sheriff slowly stripped her out of her casual college clothes:
gym shoes, socks, t-shirt, shorts, bra...and, finally, her panties.
None of the witnesses objected; no one tried to help her. When the
cruel Sheriff ordered the humiliated coed to lay back on the table
and put her feet into the hateful stirrups, the smiling men had
gaped at her as if she were the centerfold in a sleazy magazine.
The crowd had been merciless. Her anger grew as she recalled the
men whistling and applauding as the Sheriff led her out the front
door in her skimpy chain-gang uniform. She was dressed in a thin
midriff-baring t-shirt. Her hands were chained behind her back,
which made it impossible for her to hide her protruding nipples
poking against her tiny top. The minuscule denim shorts showed a
generous amount of leg, and the men's jeering appraisals made the
hapless teenager blush.
"You sure do look cute in that little outfit!"
"Is it chilly today?"
"When it comes time to pick peaches at my farm, happy pants, I'll
be sure to ask for you!"
"You really helped us get a dangerous criminal off the street,
darling! Thanks for stopping by!"
"See you at the truck stop. Don't let the warden wear out that
smooth little nooky of yours before I get my chance!"
"Got any more crimes you want to report, peach fuzz?"
Red-neck wit....
******************************
"I think the Sheriff's ready to see us now, dear," her husband
prompted.
She awoke from her trance as her husband gently took her arm and
led her into the Sheriff's plush private office.
She flinched as she watched the tubby Sheriff exchange pleasantries
with her husband. The obnoxious Sheriff had changed little over
the years, and, when the Sheriff shook her hand, she was chilled to
the bone.
"And you must be the little lady who's been hollering for prison
reform!" the Sheriff said, as he warmly grasped her sweaty hand.
"I have to say that I've been looking forward to getting you in my
office, Cindy."
"Um...it's 'Cynthia,'" she said as the Sheriff tightly squeezed
her limp hand. As soon as she heard him use her college nickname,
she realized the awful truth....
The Sheriff knew precisely who she was.
She had planned on using her position as the governor's wife to
lecture the Sheriff on the need for reform. But her plan vanished
as he slowly ran his eyes up and down her curvy form.
The Sheriff's playful smirk spoke volumes. "The others may think
you're a sophisticated professional woman," his eyes said. "But I
know you're just another jailhouse slut, good for picking cotton
and wrapping your legs around the fruit pickers at the truck stop."
Her confidence dissolved as she recalled the last time she had
stood before this desk. Although her husband hadn't noticed it,
she saw the familiar worn spot on the front of the desk, left
behind by the hundreds of women who had writhed and wiggled during
their punishments. Her own introduction to "jailhouse justice" had
been sharp, painful, and unspeakably humiliating. The cruel kiss
of the razor strap had taught the proud young coed the meaning of
female obedience.
Cynthia looked around the room and noticed the strap hanging
casually in the corner. To her, the presence of that strap was
unspeakably humiliating. But, to the Sheriff, the carelessly
dangling strap was just a conveniently placed office accessory,
like a pen or a stapler.
The Sheriff smiled as he noticed her staring intently at the strap.
No one else in the delegation had even noticed the long, polished
strip of leather. But she appeared hypnotized as she
absentmindedly smoothed the seat of her expensive worsted
wool skirt.
"I think what I admire most about your program, Sheriff, is the
way you put the women to work," the governor said as he sat down
and began the conversation. "The revenue you generated funded my
tax cut last year. Your generous campaign contributions were also
greatly appreciated."
"The best part of my program is that it teaches these lazy,
pampered tramps the value of hard work and discipline," the
Sheriff said, piously. "Feminists are always bitching about
equal pay for equal work, so I work the little ladies on my
chain gang just as hard as any man. We build more than roads
in my county...we build character."
"What about forcing the women to work as PROSTITUTES?" she
asked, sharply. "Is that building character, too?"
The Sheriff ignored her and directed his reply to the governor.
"What your lovely wife fails to understand is that whores are
born, not made. You can't take a decent, respectable woman and
expect her to jerk off on stage in front of hundreds drooling men."
The Sheriff looked at Cynthia and smiled. "Only a cheap piece of
trash would do that."
She felt herself blush hotly as she clenched her teeth and looked
down at her expensive shoes. Pleasuring herself on stage in front
of the Sheriff had been the most mortifying degradation
imaginable....
"That's why the strip search process is so important," the Sheriff
continued. "When I get these little honeys up on the table, I can
tell in an instant if they're the kind of randy sluts that can
entertain a dozen truckers a day and still be hot for more."
"You're performing a service," the governor observed. "These hot
little bunnies would probably have their legs in the air all day
anyway. At least this way they're generating revenue for the state
instead of just sucking up welfare and grinding out little bastards
to feed."
"A lot of people think that it's poor and indigent women who make
the best whores, but you'd be surprised, Governor," the Sheriff
said, pedantically. "As often as not, it's the fancy society
ladies who have the sweetest, stickiest honey pots. Oh, they blush
and squirm and put up a big fuss when your order them to strip,
but, when you put them up on the table, they're wetter than the
Mississippi," he said, with a vulgar laugh. "Sometimes their
underpants are so wet I actually have to put them in one of these
little plastic bags, to keep them from staining their clothes."
Her eyes widened as she watched the Sheriff casually toss a plastic
bag onto the desk directly in front of her.
"A woman might come in dressed in a fancy blue suit with Gucci
shoes," he went on, pointedly. "But, once you put her feet into
the stirrups, anyone can see if she belongs in the statehouse...or
the whorehouse."
As she stared at the plastic bag, Cynthia felt acutely aware of her
designer blue suit, Gucci shoes, and the increasing dampness
between her legs....
******************************
She remembered standing in her skimpy chain-gang uniform, shackled
and helpless, as the Sheriff carefully placed her soggy, bagged
panties in the window like a hunting trophy. The knowing smiles
as the men looked at her wet underpants -- and then at her -- had
been unbearable.
The nineteen-year-old coed had been wearing a cute pair of low-rise
panties imprinted with the image of smiling happy faces. Cindy had
selected the girlish panties because she thought the happy yellow
faces were cute.
She had never imagined that the childish panties would be stripped
off of her, sopping wet, to be displayed to the world.
Her "customers" at the truck stop had teased the blushing coed
unmercifully about her "sopping wet underpants." The tone of
their message was clear: Cindy could play the part of the innocent
teenager if she wanted, but they all knew she was really a randy
little vixen. A few weeks in the brothel was exactly what Cindy
deserved.
Even the migrant farm workers who didn't speak English would laugh
and ask for "Happy Pants." The whole town knew exactly whom they
meant....
******************************
Of course, Cynthia hadn't worn that type of underwear for years.
As the governor's wife, she now favored the type of expensive,
silky, but slightly racy lingerie befitting a beautiful woman of
stature.
She had had been angry when this visit had been scheduled, and she
had vowed to stay home. But that evening she had dismissed her
security detail and had driven to a distant factory outlet mall.
She had told the sales clerk that she was looking for cute pair of
panties for her college-age niece.
The clerk had shown her dozens of panties before pointedly asking
her EXACTLY what she was looking for.
"Well...do you have any panties with...um...little yellow happy
faces?" Cynthia asked, nervously biting her lip.
The clerk was surprised that a college coed would be interested in
that type of print, but, when Cynthia explained tersely that her
niece was "just about my size." the clerk smiled knowingly.
She didn't know why she'd purchased the happy face panties; it had
been almost a week before she'd had the nerve to take them out of
the bag and hide them in the back of her lingerie drawer. Perhaps
it was nostalgia, or an act of defiance designed to demonstrate
that a measly pair of underpants couldn't frighten her.
The morning of the visit, she had stood in front of the full
length mirror in her dressing room for hours, trying on every
conceivable combination of underwear before finally settling
on a tasteful pink bra with a matching panty and garter belt
combination.
Although no one would ever see them (of course!) Cynthia was
pleased with her perfect, tasteful selection. But, as she
stared at her attractive form in the mirror, a nagging voice
told her that something wasn't quite right. Something was missing.
Deep down, she knew what she had to do. The Sheriff was waiting
for her, and he was a busy man. It was time for little Cindy to
stop wasting his valuable time and slip into her "happy pants."
Her hands had trembled as she slowly fished the cheap underpants
out of the drawer. She stared down at the panties with anguish.
Even now she shuddered at the shame and humiliation of her
nickname, and she would never forget the way the men had leered
at her when the Sheriff had placed her soggy underpants in the
window. She hated the panties and hadn't worn any printed ones
since that fateful day....
She blushed as she recalled the men snickering when she had
reluctantly dropped her jeans and revealed her childish
underpants to the world. The happy print underscored that the
haughty girl's humiliating incarceration was an enormous joke,
a comical way of teaching a prissy coed an overdue lesson in
humility.
But her feelings of embarrassment were as irrelevant today as they
had been on that fateful day when she had first confidently entered
the Sheriff's lair.
Cindy had stalled long enough. The Sheriff was waiting. It was
time to put on her happy pants.
She had told herself that the smiley panties were a harmless prank,
a silly tribute to her carefree college days.
But, as she sat in the Sheriff's office, she could feel her panties
growing wetter...and wetter...and wetter.
She knew that she had made a dreadful mistake.
The original panties had been confiscated by the Sheriff and
retained as a disgusting "memento." When she pleasured herself
at night, she imagined her bagged panties, still wet in their
protective bag, sitting in a box in the attic of the Sheriff's
house. Cynthia's bag wasn't special: it was randomly mixed in
with hundreds of other bags, just another nameless trophy of a
sassy college girl brought to heel.
As if reading her mind, the Sheriff escorted the governor and his
dazed wife to an enormous glass display case in the corner of his
luxurious office.
She gasped. The museum-quality case contained row upon row of
underpants, each one bagged and tagged!
"This doesn't house my entire collection, but I keep some of my
favorite souvenirs here," the Sheriff said with a chuckle, pointing
at the case. "These belonged to Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist
Terri London, and these belonged to State Supreme Court Justice
Janice Field."
"And, years before she won her Oscar, a certain actress with a lead
foot performed nightly at my club!" the Sheriff guffawed.
Cynthia didn't hear the Sheriff's description of the Nobel Prize
winners, corporate leaders, and millionaire moguls whose shamefully
wet panties were on display to the world. Her eyes were riveted to
the tiny pair of panties in the center row, eighth from the left.
The panties were low rise, and, even after all these years, the
tiny drops of moisture were still visible on the inside of the bag.
But it was the smiling yellow happy faces that made her wince.
She stared in desperate agony at her shamefully wet panties as the
Sheriff endlessly prattled on about the "hot supermodels" that had
experienced his "southern hospitality." A name-tag was attached to
the front of each bag, and she was horrified to see her own name
and the date of her arrest prominently displayed.
She stared at the humiliating tag, hoping that she could make it
disappear by sheer willpower. But the happy faces mockingly smiled
back at her.
She could actually feel tiny drops of moisture running down her
thighs. The happy face panties she was wearing were even wetter
and randier than the panties in the lurid trophy case.
She was staring so intently that, for a moment, she thought she
saw two bags, both with smiley face panties, sitting side by side.
The bags were identical, except that the second one was dated today.
Dazed, she didn't realize for a moment that the Sheriff had started
discussing the panties in the center row. He would point at a pair
of panties, read the name, and relate an "amusing" anecdote about
the unfortunate woman's "visit."
Four...a college dean who had been forced to dress up as a school
girl and take a bare fanny spanking from the predecessor she had
forced into early retirement.
Five...a beautiful supermodel who began wetting her bed after she
was put to work dancing at the club. Fortunately Warden Hal didn't
mind diapering her.
Six...a bratty 22-year-old rock star, who spent "an extended
vacation" dancing at the strip club as her own celebrity lookalike.
Seven...an FBI agent whose credentials were regrettably "misplaced"
during a routine inspection tour of the Sheriff's office.
Cynthia stood frozen in horror. Her name was next.
"Could you show us how the razor strap works, Sheriff?" she blurted
in desperation. "I mean...can you give me a demonstration...um...I
mean...can I see it?"
The Sheriff looked at her and smiled. Her panicked eyes revealed
that she had never told her deeply conservative husband about her
shameful prison sentence...or her "career" at the brothel.
The Sheriff knew that she was completely at his mercy…
"Well, I always spank girls on their bare fannies," he said, as he
removed the strap from its hook and tapped it against his palm.
"So I can't really give you a demonstration, Cindy...unless you've
been a naughty girl. Of course you'd have to drop your drawers."
She flushed, as everyone in the room, including her husband,
laughed at her expense. The governor took the strap out of
the Sheriff's hands and examined it carefully.
"The strap is an extremely effective tool for handling routine
discipline problems," the Sheriff pontificated as the governor
lightly ran his fingers over the well-oiled leather.
Cynthia frowned as she watched her husband tapping the strap
against his palm in an approving gesture.
"It's shameful and humiliating!" she said, testily. "Treating
grown women like naughty teenagers...spanking them bare...in
front of everyone."
"It's the only method some women understand," the Sheriff replied.
"I know it might be a tad embarrassing, but it's for their own
good," he patronized.
"It looks kind of worn," the governor noted, nonchalantly. "Maybe
you should get a new one."
Cynthia glared angrily at her thick husband. Didn't he realize
that the strap was "worn" because it had been used to beat
hundreds of innocent young women?
"'Worn' is best," the Sheriff replied, brightly. "It takes quite
a few bare fannies to properly break in a good strap, but a supple
strap is worth the effort. It doesn't leave any marks, but it...."
"It stings like fury!" Cynthia interrupted, angrily. "'Supple'
means that it SNAPS! around your butt and stings like a hornet.
And they do it on the bare, with everyone watching and laughing,
while you promise to be good...promise to do ANYTHING, if they'll
just give you one less stroke...."
Her voice trailed off as she suddenly realized that everyone was
staring at her, wondering why she was so upset.
"My wife's been under a lot of stress lately," the governor said,
apologetically. "Fortunately, she's going to have a few weeks to
rest up while I'm overseas working on that new jobs program. And,
speaking of breaks, would you mind if I used your office for a
minute, Sheriff? I have a couple of calls to make."
The Sheriff, the troopers, and the aides wandered out into the main
part of the station to give the governor his privacy. Cynthia
joined them in order to avoid explaining her outburst to her
puzzled husband.
She watched uneasily as the Sheriff walked out the front door
of the station and chatted amicably with the growing crowd of
spectators watching her from the street through the picture window.
Increasingly agitated, she tried to ignore both the exam table
behind her and the grinning men in front of her. Although she
couldn't hear what the Sheriff and the men were saying, she knew
the conversation was surely about her.
Though quite accustomed to appearing before groups, she was
unnerved by the way the men in the window were watching her.
Despite her elegant and refined appearance, they were appraising
her body in the basest way. Even through the glass she heard the
phrases "frisky bitch" and "tight and juicy."
She fumed silently as the men appraised her like a slave girl on
the block.
Eventually the Sheriff finished chatting and, laughing heartily,
walked back into the station. He sauntered over to Cynthia, who
was standing by herself in front of the examination table.
"It's nice to see you again, Cindy," he said, archly.
"I wish I could say the same," she replied, coldly. "And the name
is 'Cynthia,' tubby."
The Sheriff chuckled. "You were pretty sassy the last time you
came in here, too. But, as I recall, a little dose of strap oil
took the starch out of your drawers. Maybe a demonstration of
strapping isn't such a bad idea after all."
"I'm the wife of the governor, fatso," she said through clenched
teeth. "I don't care what you told those slobbering imbeciles
outside, I'm out of your league, so don't even think about it."
"They just wanted to know if you were a natural blonde," the
Sheriff said, innocently. "I could have told them you were, of
course. As I recall, you had the cutest little patch of yellow
fur...till I buzzed it down to peach fuzz."
He smiled nostalgically, as if remembering an old sports victory.
"But of course I didn"t tell them. I didn"t want to ruin the
suspense."
"Suspense?" she asked.
The Sheriff began to run his fingers playfully over the shiny steel
stirrups. "You heard me. They wanted to know if you were blonde
EVERYWHERE. I told them to stick around, and they might see for
themselves."
She swallowed hard. She desperately wanted to appear brave, but
the Sheriff's thinly veiled threats petrified her.
"Now that we're alone at last, there is a question I wanted to ask
you," the Sheriff said, as he playfully chewed on an old toothpick.
"Are you wearing panties, today, Cindy?"
She said nothing, but her nodded her head very slightly in an
attempt to answer without actually acknowledging the vulgar
question.
"Of course you are," he chuckled. "A fine lady like yourself
wouldn't run around without no underwear."
He moved closer, and she backed up against the exam table. "I was
also wondering, Cindy," he said softly, "are your panties...damp?”
She stared at him for several seconds and then murmured, "No.
Certainly not. I'm a respectable woman."
"Be careful, Cindy," he said, coyly. "Do you remember what happens
around here to young ladies who lie to the Sheriff about their
panties?"
There was a long pause as the smiling Sheriff waited for her reply.
Cindy could feel her heart beating in her chest as she whispered,
"They're punished."
"That's right, young lady. And do you remember HOW they are
punished? Specifically?"
She felt a chill go through her. Staring down at her shoes, she
whispered, "They get punished with-with...the strap."
"That's right, Cindy. I bend them over my desk, and raise their
skirts, and lower their soggy underpants to their knees. And then
I use the strap to teach them a lesson in honesty."
He paused. "You don't want me to have to do that to you, do you,
Cindy?"
"No, sir," she replied, barely able to speak.
"I'm going to ask you one more time, Cindy," he said, sternly.
"Are your underpants wet?"
She didn't look up, but nodded her head.
He lifted her chin. Looking deep into her eyes, he asked, "Are
they just a little moist...or are they soaked?"
She said nothing, but her furious blush told him what he wanted to
know.
"You know what we do with soggy panties, don't you, Cindy?" he
taunted. "Tell me."
“You-you...bag them." Her voice was cracking with tension and
fear. "You seal them in a clear plastic bag, and put them in the
front window, for everyone to see."
She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Please. Not my
underpants.... They're DRENCHED!"
"And that's exactly why they need to go into the window, Cindy.
This isn't one of those towns where you lazy little bitches get
to lie around your cells and live off the dole. You're going to
be humping for hire, and the hard working, honest taxpayers need
to know that there's a fresh, wet little slut ready and willing
to service the community. When they see your waterlogged
underpants, everyone will know what a hot little number you
really are."
"But you can't...you couldn't! I'm the wife of the GOVERNOR. You
can't put my underpants...on display...in front of the whole town."
"It wouldn't be the first time," the Sheriff observed, cheerfully.
"Besides, once I get a woman up on the table with her legs spread,
money and fancy titles don't mean much, do they? If you got
clothes, we'll strip them off; if you got wet undies, we'll bag
them and put them in the window. And, if you sass me, you'll get
a fanny tanning. What could be more fair?"
"You can't take my panties!" she said in horror. "You couldn't do
that to me! Not again!"
"Well, once I sign your sentencing form, they won't be your panties
anymore, darling.... They'll be contraband. Your sweet little
panties will belong to me...just like what's inside them. But
don't worry, I still have plenty of room in my trophy case. After
all, it isn't every day I get to cavity search such a respected
moral leader."
She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she stared
into the Sheriff's twinkling eyes. Suddenly she was Cindy again,
19, alone, defenseless, and utterly at the mercy of a man with the
legal authority to strip her naked as the day she was born....
The dreaded "sentencing forms" were a mockery of justice. She
still couldn't believe that the Sheriff could use a one-page form
to strip a woman of all of her constitutional rights and turn her
into a helpless prison bimbo.
Due process had been a joke then. She was already in her scanty
uniform, with her hands cuffed securely behind her back, when
the Sheriff had casually trumped up the charges and signed the
form that transformed her from coed to convict.
"I need your help, Cindy," the Sheriff said. "There's a small
plastic bag on my desk...I think you know the one I mean. I want
you to fetch the tag that's on top of the folder behind my desk,
and staple the tag to the corner of the bag, and then bring it
back to me. I'd do it myself, but I don't want to disturb your
husband during his phone call. Now hurry up...spit spat! Don't
dawdle!"
She said nothing, but walked slowly across the room towards the
office door. She paused and knocked twice, softly, before reaching
down to turn the knob.
She never knocked on her husband's office door in the state
capital building, or his study in the Governor's Mansion. Indeed,
even now she felt slightly foolish about announcing her entrance
as if she were some sort of secretary.
But she wasn't knocking on account of her husband. She was
politely knocking because it was the SHERIFF'S office. She
knew the Sheriff demanded that young women demonstrate their
bsolute and uncompromising respect for the law -- or face the
consequences.
The governor barely looked up as his wife entered the room; he was
too busy chatting with a legislative aide about the latest cut in
social services to the poor. Cynthia nervously picked up the
plastic bag on the desk and then crossed behind her husband to
retrieve the small tag that was sitting on top of a file folder.
NAME: Long, Cindy
NBR: 5314-4812-6493
DATE: 7/11/03
She swallowed hard. Just like the tag that was now displayed
proudly in the trophy case, this tag contained her name, and
her old prisoner number....
But it was TODAY'S date.
It had to be a mistake! She was the wife of governor, not some
little airhead bimbo who could have her underpants displayed for
the Sheriff's amusement. This bag couldn't be FOR HER!
She desperately wanted to tear the tag in half and throw the
baggie into the trash. It was one thing to drop sly hints, but
asking her to help prepare her own panty bag was the ultimate in
contemptuous disrespect.
She was about to tear up the tag when she spied the dreaded razor
strap hanging expectantly in the corner. She felt a tingling
sensation in her fanny as she remembered how the Sheriff had
teasingly tapped out a few "practice strokes" across her bare
cheeks before raising the strap high into the air....
As she gingerly smoothed the seat of her skirt, she decided
that maybe it would be better if she just played along with
the Sheriff's twisted game.
Her hands were shaking so badly that it took her several tries
before she could successfully align the demeaning tag with the
corner of her panty bag. She felt like a ditzy secretary as she
tried to line them up just right, so that the staple would be at
the same angle as the others in the case. She didn't want her
staple to obscure her name; the convict's name must be properly
displayed. The bag would be in the trophy case for a long time,
and countless visitors would see it. The stapling shouldn't look
hurried, or shoddy, or sloppy.
She wasn't sure why, but it was vitally important to her that the
degrading tag be attached to her bag in a crisp and professional
manner. The intake needed to be done correctly, down to the
smallest detail. The Sheriff had strict rules for the "processing"
of female prisoners, and she knew that each and every rule had to
be followed to the letter.
No matter how humiliating it might be....
CLICK! Her heart skipped a beat as the evil tag was fastened to
the bag. To the casual observer, the small tag might seem like
an innocuous indexing procedure. But she knew that it was another
mundane link in a process designed to strip her of her dignity.
Her panties were soaking, but that was no longer a problem. Her
panty bag was ready.
She examined the bag closely. She desperately wanted her bag to
be special, but, as she stared down at the finished product, she
knew it wasn't. The routine, bureaucratic nature of the stapling
emphasized how unimportant her incarceration really was. The wife
of the governor was now just another little bimbo to be processed,
one more trophy in the crowded case.
Cynthia was just another tag and a bag.
She tried to tell herself that the tag was a mistake, but she knew
it was not. Her panties were drenched, and they needed to be
bagged so that they didn't stain her clothes or stink up the
office. Despite her sophisticated pretenses, she was just another
randy tramp. What could be more logical than stripping her down
naked and bagging her soggy underpants?
If there was any mistake here, it was Cynthia's. She had thought
she would be able to waltz out of the Sheriff's office as easily
as she had waltzed in.
She went back to the Sheriff and handed him the bag. He said
nothing, but folded the bag carefully so as to not wrinkle the
tag.
Proper procedure was important.
******************************
Part 2: Cynthia Decides to Stay
Despite her best efforts, Cynthia felt a mounting sense of dread of
helplessness as events gradually spiraled out of her control. It
was a familiar feeling. She remembered her first visit to the
Sheriff's office....
The Sheriff had been indifferent to her complaint, seemingly more
interested in whether anyone knew where she was.
Then there were the questions about how much cash she was carrying.
She'd thought that was strange. But he'd gone on to casually
remark that, technically, an unescorted young woman traveling
alone with less than $200 in cash could be charged with vagrancy.
He'd been surprised when she'd showed him the $230 in cash that
she had in her wallet, but he quickly recovered. "Did I say $200?
I think it actually is...I mean I'm sure it's...uh...actually
$500. Yes, $500.... No doubt about it."
She grasped at straws, but he shook his head sadly.
"No, I'm sorry; credit cards definitely do NOT count. Yes, that
is a cash machine across the street. Maybe you should have used
it before you sauntered in and pitched a fit about someone ELSE
breaking the law. Now tell me...are you SURE no one knows you're
here?"
She snapped back to the present as her husband opened the door
and motioned the group back in. Cynthia felt a sudden surge of
confidence as the state troopers, the aides, and even the Sheriff
waited deferentially for her to enter the office first. She
smiled. Despite the Sheriff's head games, she was still the most
powerful woman in the state.
She took a moment to glare angrily at the disgusting pigs leering
at her from the window. In a few minutes she would be strolling
back to her limousine surrounded by an escort of the state
troopers. Her triumphal departure would be a blow to the
Sheriff's prestige, proving to the buffoons in the window that
a beautiful woman didn't have to be a victim, even in this town.
She gleefully imagined the superior smile she would give the
disappointed louts and the embarrassed Sheriff as she marched
out the door. Victory would be sweet!
With renewed confidence, she strode back into the Sheriff's office.
But that confidence faded when she noticed what was sitting on the
floor next to her chair.
It was a shoddy black plastic carton about the size of milk crate.
She swallowed and stared anxiously at the empty box. Cindy had
been forced to stand in the window and slowly strip naked in front
of the smiling crowd. As each garment came off, it went into a
black carton, until finally it contained Cindy's purse, Cindy's
identification, Cindy's money...and every scrap of Cindy's clothing.
Cynthia looked at the ominously empty box with dread. she had the
sensation of the air conditioning blowing over her naked, exposed
skin, and she involuntarily looked down to confirm that she was
still wearing her crisp blue suit and white silk blouse.
She breathed a sigh a relief. She was still dressed, and the
hateful black carton was still empty.
At least for now.
The carton was turned so that the white tag with the prisoner's
name and number was flush against the Sheriff's desk. She
desperately wanted to turn the carton to see that name and number.
She needed to confirm that the hideous box was reserved for the
clothing of some other poor, unfortunate woman.
Although she knew it was wrong, she desperately hoped that the poor
woman was already there, languishing in a holding cell. The woman
would be totally innocent, of course; perhaps she had been arrested
for "loitering" while pumping her gas, or perhaps she had just
made a wrong turn. Cynthia didn't care, as long as it was somebody
else...anybody else.
"I wanted to show you the uniforms we have the little hotties wear
on the chain gang, Governor," the Sheriff said, brightly, as he
pushed some clothes across the desk. "I get the girls stripped,
showered, deloused, and into uniform as fast as possible. It's
more sanitary to get the randy little bitches scrubbed down
quickly, and the revealing uniforms help the fancy-pants women
understand that they're not in Kansas anymore."
The Sheriff turned to Cynthia and smiled. "A lot of women come in
her dressed like a million dollars, thinking they're special. But,
once we get them out of their fancy frills and into their uniforms,
college degrees and professional licenses don't matter. The guys
watching them work on the chain gang judge them by who has the
perkiest tits and the cutest ass."
"It doesn't seem like very much clothing to be wearing...in
public," the governor said as he held up the tiny cut-offs for
examination.
"Well, it is hot out...and the girls work up quite a sweat picking
cotton and digging sewer lines," the Sheriff replied. "You need
to remember, Governor, that it isn't like I'm parading a bunch of
decent, proper women around in their scanties. A lesson in
humility is just what these little miscreants need. And if it
entertains a few of our hard-working male taxpayers, so much the
better."
"You're probably right, but...," the governor's voice trailed off
as he stared doubtfully at the skimpy pants. Suddenly inspired, he
turned to his wife. "Cynthia, could you come over here?"
She reluctantly stood and walked over to her husband. She felt her
face redden as her husband held the shorts up against her crotch.
"They're too small for me," she said, meekly.
"Well, the rise is pretty low...," the governor agreed.
"Nonsense!" the Sheriff retorted. "They're exactly her size." He
smiled knowingly. "In fact, if she was a prisoner those are
EXACTLY the pants I would put her in." He looked her directly in
the eye. "Exactly," he repeated.
"Of course, the gardener would probably need to trim the top of the
hedge a bit, if you know what I mean," the Sheriff said, making a
snipping motion with his fingers.
Cynthia shuddered. The girls at the truck stop were kept closely
trimmed, to make it quicker for them to clean up between customers.
Some were shaved bare, but Cindy had been left a tiny patch of
fuzz.
The Sheriff said the customers preferred natural blondes, and it
was important to let them see the quality of the "merchandise"
for themselves.
Cindy had been deeply humiliated by her shearing, but no one cared,
of course. The Sheriff's power was absolute, and he had ordered
the humiliating procedure as casually as another man might order
fries with his burger.
The most intimate and private portion of Cindy's anatomy was part
of the Sheriff's vast inventory of fresh, salable pussy. And the
merchandise had to be displayed as attractively as possible.
"Hold up the shirt, too, Cindy, so the governor can see the
ensemble," the Sheriff suggested, helpfully.
She dumbly picked the shirt up off the table and held it up against
her shoulders. It wasn't until she looked down that she saw the
number stenciled across the front of the shirt:
#5314-4812-6493
She gasped. It was her old prisoner number. The shirt that she
was holding up against her chest had her OLD PRISONER NUMBER!
Even after all these years, she still remembered her old number
well. Many of the crueler guards referred to the prisoners by
number only, and forgetfulness meant the strap....
"Stand up straight, Cindy, and don't slouch, so that we can all
see how it looks," the governor said, adopting a patronizing tone
himself.
She was infuriated by her husband's attitude, but she dutifully
obeyed. As a good political wife, she knew how to take orders,
at least in public. If her husband wanted to order her about the
Sheriff's office like a little girl being fitted for her party
dress, then so be it. He would pay the price later, in the form
of a deep, chilling frost in their marital bed.
But, despite her anger and humiliation, she tried to angle herself
so that she could get some idea of what she looked like. It had
been years since she had worn anything so lewd or revealing in
public, and the vain beauty secretly wondered if she still had
what it took to work the main stage at the Sheriff's club.
She had thought about the skimpy chain-gang uniform many times over
the years. She had a recurring dream that she was back on the
chain gang, hauling bags of cement in her skimpy costume, while the
lazy town bubbas stood behind the barriers and hooted at her from
the distance. The labor was exhausting and degrading, and she
would wake up tired, sore, and sweaty. But there would also be
an incredible wetness between her legs....
When the visit to the Sheriff's office had been scheduled, she had
stolen one of her husband's t-shirts and cut it so that it barely
covered her breasts. Then she had locked herself in the private
gym, blocked the air conditioning vents, and changed into socks,
sneakers, skimpy running shorts, and the clingy white t-shirt.
She had worked herself hard that day, using the treadmill, free
weights, and rowing machine to simulate hours of hard manual labor.
Every time she thought about resting, she would imagine a man in
uniform, on horseback, with a rifle in one hand and a razor strap
in the other.
She would always grit her teeth and drive on. Slackers got the
strap!
Her breasts were small, but they were shapely and firm. As she
observed herself in the gym mirror, she was pleased to see that her
sweat-soaked t-shirt stuck to her curvy breasts and pointy nipples
in a most alluring way. Her long, slender legs were as shapely as
they had been the first day she'd been led out onto the highway, in
shackles, to spread hot tar in the broiling summer heat. Sweat had
run in rivulets down her beautiful legs, and the t-shirt clung to
her like a second skin. She blushed as she recalled the passing
motorists honking their horns in appreciation.
As she watched herself sweat and strain in the gym mirror, she felt
a strange sense of relief that those countless spectators would not
be disappointed.
But, as she stood in the office with the scanty uniform pressed
against her, she became acutely aware of the state troopers ogling
her. She knew that they were men too, although she pointedly
declined to treat them as such. No doubt they would be pleased to
see their bitchy boss stripped down for a quick trip to the prison
farm. As state troopers, they would have full and complete access
to any of the inmates at the prison farm.
"Your husband told me that he is going overseas for the next month
or so," the Sheriff said, pleasantly. "He suggested that you
could stay here as my guest for a few days, so that you could get
an inside look at the most successful correctional system in
America today."
Cynthia felt as if she had been struck by lightning. "No! I'm not
staying here," she gasped. "I'm going home with my husband. The
state troopers are going to take me back to the mansion and...."
"It was my idea, honey," the governor explained. "Frankly, my
dear, I think you have a lot to learn about the penal system, and
I think the Sheriff is just the man to teach you."
She looked at her husband as if he had just gone insane. "There is
NO WAY that I am...."
"Of course, no one will force you to stay, Cindy," the Sheriff
said, brusquely ending her tirade. "But there was one case in
particular I wanted to discuss with you after your husband left.
It seems there was a woman we released several years ago who failed
to check in with my office for her six-month parole review. Since
she is technically in violation of her parole, it is my sad duty
to make sure that she serves out the remaining 30 days of her
sentence."
The Sheriff reached behind him, selected a file folder from the
stack, and handed it to her face down. Being careful to adjust
herself so that her husband couldn't see what she was reading,
she opened the folder....
And gasped.
The first page of the rap sheet contained the picture of a pretty
blonde coed staring stupidly at the camera, her face a mask of
panic and confusion. Below the stunned girl's picture were a set
of fingerprints and a list of the bogus charges of which she had
been "summarily convicted."
Vagrancy may have been technically accurate, although she had her
suspicions. But "Suspicion of Prostitution" had been a gratuitous
humiliation slapped on by the Sheriff as a sly hint of her life to
come.
Unfortunately for Cindy, the drunk who had almost run her off
the road was one of the Sheriff's drinking buddies. The
toothless, drunken hillbilly with the stale beer breath thought
her incarceration was hysterical, and he relished mounting the
blushing young coed who had tried to ensnare him with the law.
"Suspicion of Prostitution" had been an outrageous and insulting
charge. But that night, the sneering, vengeful drunk had been the
self-righteous coed's first customer. The first of many....
She looked back at her mug shot and prints and then down at her
pretty, manicured hands. For a brief moment, she almost expected
to see each fingertip darkened with purple ink.
The second page of the dossier was even worse. It contained "mug
shots" of the butt-naked prisoner: front, both sides, and back.
Below the mug shots were pictures of the shackled prisoner in her
chain-gang uniform, and, next to that, pictures of her in the
clothes she had worn whoring at the truck stop. The text contained
a detailed description of her sexual abilities, with tips on her
specialties:
CINDY'S SKILLFUL TONGUE HAS MADE HER POPULAR WITH GUARDS
AND CUSTOMERS ALIKE, AND SHE NEVER MISSES A DROP. SHE IS
ALWAYS WET AND READY, AND MAKES A LOT OF NOISE WHENEVER....
The next page showed her performing a lewd sex act on stage with
another woman.
Although Cynthia didn't realize it, she wasn't the only one who
could see the folder. She had forgotten that her aide, Judy, was
standing behind her in the corner, watching, reading...and smiling.
Judy hated accompanying the governor's wife on these trips, but,
as she peered over Cynthia's shoulder, her imagination began to
run wild....
It was the last page of the dossier that terrified Cynthia the
most. It was her sentencing form for the remaining thirty days.
And it was dated today. The only things that was missing were her
new mug shots, her fingerprints, and the Sheriff's signature.
"I thought that you and I could discuss the woman's case after your
husband left," the Sheriff said, dryly. "But, if you have to
leave, I should probably just show him the folder now...."
"That won't be necessary, Sheriff," Cynthia replied, as she closed
the folder and handed it back to him. "I've reconsidered, and I'd
like to spend the next 30 days with you, learning how you run
things."
The Sheriff smiled and took the folder back, carefully opening the
file to reveal only the last page. Cynthia watched as he took the
pen out of his pocket and teasingly tapped it against the signature
line on her sentencing form.
"Are you sure you want to stay, Cindy?" he asked, playfully. "If
you prefer, you can just walk out of here, and I'll give your
husband the file folder to review right now...."
"No!" she said, desperately. "Please...let me stay. I WANT to
stay."
The Sheriff smiled and again mischievously tapped the tip of his
pen against the blank line on the form. "Well, if that's what you
REALLY want, Cindy. I've always had a weakness for the ladies."
snorted.
Cynthia watched helplessly as the Sheriff signed the paper that
transformed her into a convicted criminal. She was once again
Cindy, a feckless bimbo jailbird fit only for teasing and pleasing.
The governor was surprised at his wife's sudden change in tone, but
he was pleased that she was finally willing to listen to an
opposing viewpoint. "Don't sugar coat it or hold back, Sheriff,"
he urged. "It's important for Cynthia to understand exactly how
you handle these lazy, randy little sluts."
"What's going to happen to the little slut who violated her
parole?" Judy asked, eagerly.
Cynthia turned and glared angrily at her so-called aide. She
had never liked Judy, and hired her only because of her father's
political contributions.
"She'll be put back in the chain gang, for 30 days of road work and
highway trash pickup. Of course, we're short-handed with that
insurance convention in town, and with harvest coming up, so she'll
probably spend her evenings working at the strip club and the truck
stop." He looked at Cynthia and smiled. "Insurance salesmen like
to talk, so they really appreciate a girl with a smooth, velvety
tongue."
Cynthia said nothing, but stared at her shoes while her husband
warmly shook the Sheriff's hand and apologized for taking so much
of his valuable time.
The governor kissed his wife goodbye and paused to talk to one of
the state troopers standing by the front door. Cynthia desperately
wanted to leave with her husband, but she knew that she couldn't.
"Cindy" needed to stay for "processing."
As she sadly watched her entourage preparing to exit, she motioned
Judy aside. "I thought you…might take my purse back to the mansion
for me, Judy. I don't want it to get dirty during my...stay here."
Judy smiled. "There's no need to be bashful with me, Cindy. I was
looking over your shoulder, and I saw the pictures." Judy regarded
her boss in triumph. "So it seems little Miss Perfect has a past
after all. You were an athletic girl, weren't you?" she taunted,
grinning at her blushing boss. "I'd never have guessed that you
were so...flexible."
Judy opened Cynthia's expensive Gucci purse. "I think you'd better
put your watch and jewelry in here too, if you ever want to see
them again, Princess."
Cynthia glared angrily at Judy, but obediently surrendered her
things to her grinning assistant. Then she looked around before
reaching into her purse and discreetly stuffing a wad of money
into her assistant's fist.
"Judy, go back into the Sheriff's office and sneak this into the
pocket of the denim shorts sitting by the black carton."
"Why on earth should I do that?" Judy asked, innocently.
Cynthia swallowed and looked down. "I think those shorts are
going to be my new uniform," she softly replied. "I'm going to
be wearing them in a few minutes."
"Good heavens," Judy replied, in feigned surprise. "You don't mean
that they're actually going to take away your fancy clothes and
make you prance around in those skimpy short shorts. Imagine YOU
picking up garbage and digging up the road in front of all of those
hooting, whistling men, dressed up like a 'Hooters Girl' in
shackles."
"I know quite a few troopers at the mansion who might want to come
see your stage debut," Judy teased. "Do you think I should tell
them?"
"Don't you DARE!" Cynthia snapped. "Just put the money in the
pants, Judy."
"Temper, temper," Judy warned. "Don't forget that I am a
respectable citizen and a member of the governor's staff, and
you're just another cute little piece of jail tail. Maybe you
need a refresher course in respecting your betters, young lady."
Cynthia watched in horror as Judy strutted walked across the room
and handed the Sheriff the wad of bills. "What would happen if
some little slut tried to sneak money into your prison by asking
me to hide this in her uniform?" Judy asked, slyly.
"For starters, I'd probably give her a good fanny warming," the
Sheriff replied, as he took the bills and then glared angrily at
Cynthia. "I'd say someone needs to learn respect for my badge."
"Would it be...on the bare?" Judy's eyes were glistening with
delight.
"Of course. I wouldn't want the strap oil to stain her expensive
skirt," the Sheriff sneered.
Judy rubbed her bottom and winced in mock sympathy. "Well, even if
she's broke, I'm sure a pretty girl can always think of SOMETHING
to offer the guards," she said, with a crude laugh.
She turned and squinted at her horrified boss. "Still, I'd be
extra thorough during her cavity search. There's no telling what
else she might be hiding...or where! I'd check every crack and
crevice."
The Sheriff smiled and shook Judy's hand. "Don't worry. I have
verrry long fingers."
Cynthia's thighs involuntarily clenched together as she recalled
the accuracy of the Sheriff's suggestive remark.
Judy playfully waved "Bye-Bye" as she gave her boss a final teasing
wink and joined the aides heading out the door. Judy was going to
enjoy being out from under the thumb of her domineering boss for
the next few weeks. And the troopers would pay handsomely for the
information she was going to sell them....
******************************
Part 3: The Strip
As soon as the door slammed shut, the Sheriff walked into his
office and returned with the black crate. The label had been
hidden in the Sheriff's office, but now he positioned the carton
so that the tag proudly faced the front window:
LONG, CINDY
#5314-4812-6493
Cindy's last hope of a reprieve faded as she saw her name
humiliatingly plastered across the front of the carton that
would soon hold her clothes. There was no other unfortunate
in the holding cell. The carton confirmed that her fate was
sealed. Her freedom was a memory.
The Sheriff ordered her to stand up against the rear wall, which
bore distinctive height markings.
She stood there, meekly, under the 5'9" mark, holding a sign with
her name and number under her chin.
CLICK!
The flash exploded.
"FACE RIGHT!" the Sheriff barked. Still in a daze, she obeyed.
CLICK!
"FACE LEFT!"
CLICK!
The Sheriff's camera was digital, and her mug shots were instantly
uploaded into the computer. He could have easily transferred her
old fingerprints forward to her new sheet, but he took the extra
time to re-print each of her 10 fingers.
He had a digital print scanner, but he preferred using a dark
purple ink and an old fashioned print sheet, which he then scanned
into his fully automated system. He wanted her to experience the
ugly purple stains on the fingertips of her manicured hands.
Ordering her to hold her hands over the tiny wastebasket next to
the table, he used a pair of clippers to snip off the ends of her
carefully manicured nails. "You won't need fancy nails to dig
ditches or break rocks," he commented. "Besides, we wouldn't want
you to have anything that could be used as a weapon."
Cindy swallowed. The Sheriff was determined to take away every
protection. She would have no money, no jewelry, and no clothes,
but just stripping her naked wasn't enough. Even her fingernails
would be gone. She would be utterly defenseless.
She stared unhappily at her chipped and stubby fingernails as the
Sheriff reprinted her new "rap sheet." Although her clothes were
more elegant and her hair more carefully styled, the girl in the
mug shot had the same dazed and terrified look of the frightened
coed from years before.
The Sheriff had taken the "street clothes" mug shots. Ostensibly,
it was useful to have photographs of the young woman in her normal
attire that could be circulated in the event of an escape.
Cindy knew that the NEXT time she stood in front of a camera she
would be in the buff. The full frontal, rear, and side nudes that
would be taken at the prison would be widely circulated among the
law enforcement community, of course, but they were hardly the sort
of thing that one could show on television if she escaped.
Not that anyone had ever escaped from the prison farm. She knew
the real reason for the "street clothes" mug shots was to provide
an amusing "before" photograph of the frightened lamb before her
shearing.
Cindy clenched her teeth as she imagined the Sheriff gloating over
the photographs of the dazed, helpless women. The elegant and
sophisticated professionals never dreamed that they would someday
be convicted criminals, sweating out their harsh and unjust
sentences on a brutal prison farm....
The Sheriff walked over brusquely ordered her to hold out her right
hand. She complied and watched dumbly as he casually snapped a
small metal bracelet onto her dainty wrist. She winced as he
RATCHETED the prisoner bracelet tightly closed.
She stared at the bracelet. Her name and prisoner number were
engraved on one side, a bar code on the other.
The bracelet she had worn years ago hadn't been bar coded, but
there were rumors among the terrified inmates that each bracelet
contained a tracking device. Escapes were a twisted video game
that the Sheriff never lost. No matter how fast a girl ran, no
matter how frantic her efforts, she would never make it.
She still remembered working desperately in her cell to try to
loosen the seemingly indestructible bracelet. It was a futile
attempt. Once fastened, the shameful jewelry stayed on until the
Sheriff decided to remove it.
Cynthia knew the Sheriff's revolutionary bar coding system had
raised the exploitation of female inmates to a new level. Women
were scanned into and out of the mess hall, the chain gang, the
brothel, and even the bathroom. Any official could pull up a
complete analysis comparing the cost of the prisoner's uniform and
gruel to the revenue she had generated on the road gang and in tips
at the strip club. Customer "comments" were also tracked, and all
of the women's humiliating sexual peccadilloes carefully cataloged.
The bracelet branded any woman who wore it as a helpless pleasure
object fit only for exploitation. And now Cynthia had hers.
The Sheriff sat down in a chair against the wall, lit up a cigar,
and took a long puff. "Get to it girl; quit stalling," he said,
blowing a smoke ring into the air. "I've been waiting years to see
you shuck down for me again, and I ain't waiting any longer. It's
going to be a busy night at the truck stop, and we need to get you
HUMPING."
The crowd of leering men watching through the window was huge, and,
as she turned to look at the grinning faces, the years instantly
disappeared. The First Lady of the State was once again a
frightened girl, falsely accused, friendless, defenseless, and
powerless to resist.
She recognized a few of the men, and she wondered if they
remembered her. She was ordinarily bad with faces, but she
remembered every single man who had ever held up a dollar bill
at the club, or used her for his ten minutes of satisfaction at
the truck stop.
She didn't know their names, of course. Most customers never
bothered to even give her an alias. But she could never forget
the look of power, pleasure, and triumph on a man's face as she
debased herself for his amusement.
To the men, the humiliated coed had been just another notch on
their belts. She was only one of dozens of young women plying
their trade at the truck stop. Except for her shameful window
display and mocking nickname, Cindy was just another cute piece
of tail.
But to her, each and every drooling, lust-filled face was
unforgettable. And many of those same faces were watching her
now....
She carefully removed her elegant, tasteful shoes and put them
on the table next to the box. Cynthia was wearing expensive
designer shoes; ten years ago, Cindy had been in sneakers.
But, as she looked at the grinning men in the crowd, she realized
that it was a distinction without a difference. Then, as now, the
men didn't care what shoes Cynthia or Cindy was wearing. They
wouldn't be satisfied until her bare feet were wiggling helplessly
in the cold, merciless steel stirrups.
But what she dreaded most of all was the thought of her elegant
blue skirt sliding down her shapely legs. For it would be at that
moment that the Sheriff would see her childish underpants.
She closed her eyes and savored the sensation of her expensive and
elegant clothes. Her smooth silk blouse and crisp wool suit felt
luxurious...comfortable...safe. They were the clothes of a woman
in charge.
And she knew that the cheap and scanty clothes she would be wearing
on the chain gang would feel very different indeed. But the feel
of the clothing itself would be secondary to the way the uniform
would make her feel about herself.
Cynthia understood the psychology of the Sheriff's sadistic game.
But her agonizing awareness didn't make it any less powerful. The
thought of seeing her expensive clothes neatly tagged and boxed in
the window still filled her with an indescribable feeling of panic.
She had always taken pride in her exquisite wardrobe and in the
power it helped give her. She knew her crisp appearance reinforced
her image as an educated woman of substance, and she reveled in the
envy of women and the respect of men.
In contrast, her shameful prison uniform would be like a neon sign
spelling out the word "BIMBO." Any woman she met would instantly
despise her; any man she met would instantly want her in the basest
way. Those clothes would render her education, sophistication, and
intelligence irrelevant. The uniform would identify her as just a
feckless airhead unworthy of serious consideration.
She knew the women would be worse then the men. As an attractive
woman, she was used to men admiring her, although the leering
inspections she had been subjected to today were entirely different
from discreet glances she usually enjoyed.
But the women would be a different matter entirely. Cynthia was
accustomed to the esteem and respect of every woman she met. She
dreaded the sneers, the cold, contemptuous stares, and the
malicious smiles that her scanty uniform would trigger.
But the psychology was far darker. The clothes would cause people
to treat her like a helpless flibbertigibbet, and the constant
conditioning would eventually transform her into everything she
hated. She already felt less confident and capable than she had
that morning; it was almost as if the mere presence of that uniform
was draining her like some bimbo Kryptonite.
The psychology was inescapable. She knew that she would quickly
be assuming the role her uniform demanded. She flinched as she
recalled the way she had hid her knowledge of accounting from the
manager of the club and giggled vapidly at the guards' stupid
jokes. The uniform would do its insidious work. She would soon
be Cindy, the hapless jailhouse bimbo…
She couldn't believe how quickly she had tumbled. Her husband was
gone, her entourage gone, her security detail gone, her money gone,
her jewelry gone, and her identification gone. Mutely, she had
watched the grinning Sheriff sign the form that stripped her of
her legal rights and transformed her into a convicted criminal.
She swallowed as she slowly ran her hand down her carefully
tailored wool skirt. And now she'd be stripped.
The omnipotent Sheriff watched her carefully straighten her jacket;
he knew his terrified prisoner was savoring her last few moments in
her sophisticated attire.
"Those are mighty pretty duds, Cindy. It's really too bad they
don't let you wear civies in the joint. Of course, I'm sure you'll
look real cute in your little uniform, too."
He chuckled.
"Personally, I'd love to see you primp and preen all day and never
take off a thing, but Warden Hal keeps reminding me that we're
running a business. I'm sure, if he were here, that he'd agree
it's time for you to start SHUCKING!"
She swallowed. It WAS time.
She took off her crisp blue jacket, neatly folded it, and placed
it daintily in the carton as if to confirm that she was still an
elegant woman of quality.
But she knew her delusions of grandeur wouldn't last long. Elegant
women of quality didn't undress in front of crowds of leering,
gawking men. And they didn't offer free oral satisfaction as part
of a breakfast buffet special at the local truck stop.
She anxiously bit her lip as she slowly undid the top button of her
blouse. As she looked across the room, she caught the eye of the
gas station attendant who had serviced her limousine on the way
into town. She had gotten out of the limo to stretch, but, when
the ugly redneck tried to strike up a friendly conversation with
her, she had nodded to the troopers. They had quickly stepped
between her and the homely man, ordering him to work his pump,
not his jaw.
The man had stared daggers at her at the time, not that she'd
cared. But now the tables had turned. As she undid the second,
third, and fourth buttons of her blouse, the man's grin grew wider
and wider.
She carefully pulled the blouse out of her skirt and slowly eased
it over her left shoulder and then her right. The men in the crowd
applauded appreciatively as her lacy pink bra came into view. The
applause was mockingly polite, as if they had observed a
particularly choice shot at a tennis match.
The applause wasn't appreciative; they were applauding the
humiliated woman as if she were the prize animal at the local
dog show. The Sheriff chuckled heartily as she folded her
slender arms across her chest, and the applause slowly faded away.
The silk blouse was soft and refined, and even now she was careful
to treat the delicate garment with the respect it deserved. She
broke eye contact with the grinning crowd as she methodically
buttoned the empty blouse before carefully folding it and putting
it in the crate on top of her jacket.
Cynthia now had an impossible decision to make. She was wearing
nothing but her blue wool skirt, stockings, garter belt, bra, and
panties. Logic would dictate that the skirt should come off next,
so as to minimize her exposure.
Of course, as she glanced tensely at the exam table, she realized
that "minimizing her exposure" would soon be impossible.
But she knew that, when she took off her skirt, the Sheriff would
see the smiling yellow happy faces on her panties.
Why had she worn THOSE panties? What had possessed her? She
cursed herself for playing such a childish game, for risking so
much for so little.
She had gambled, and now she was going to lose it all. Once the
town saw her in her "happy pants," the Sheriff's triumph would be
complete....
In a desperate attempt to forestall the inevitable, she turned her
back on the crowd and reluctantly reached for the snap on her lacy
pink bra. Her fingers were trembling, and it took her almost a
full minute before she could finally undo the snap.
She could feel the men's eyes burning into her back as she slowly
slid the straps off her left shoulder and then her right. When the
bra was off, she stood there, clutching it to her chest as, her
back to the crowd, she stared at her stocking feet.
"Don't dawdle, Cindy," the Sheriff patronized. "Fold it neatly and
put it in the box. You've been wearing your fancy clothes for long
enough, and it's time for you to hand them over so that you can be
processed like the rest of the girls."
She found the Sheriff's condescending tone humiliating, but it was
his observation that she was there to be "processed like the rest
of the girls" that made her shiver. The realization that she was
going to be "processed" like a common criminal hadn't fully hit her
until that moment.
The last ten years had been spent building her persona as the
perfect professional spouse. A successful tax attorney, she had
the right looks, the right education, and even the right husband.
Her future was limitless.
Deep inside, though, she wondered if she weren't really just a
randy vixen, richly deserving of the Sheriff's indignities.
Perhaps she didn't deserve respect or admiration. Perhaps she
needed to be stripped naked, deloused, and put to work with a
shovel.
Or, if it suited the vengeful taxpayers, flat on her back....
The Sheriff prodded her.
"Quit stalling, Cindy. It's very soft and pretty, but only LADIES
get to wear bras. Dirty little jailbirds like you don't need fancy
underwear."
She swallowed and, while covering her breasts with her right arm,
slowly used her left hand to fold the silky bra in half. She
stepped sideways to the box, to avoid exposing herself to the men.
Feeling absolutely vulnerable, she let the wispy garment slide out
of her hand to take its rightful place in the crate.
"That's a good girl," the Sheriff said, soothingly. "I know that
this is hard on you, Cindy, but resisting just prolongs things.
Now be a good girl and turn around. I need to make sure you aren't
hiding anything."
But she WAS hiding something; she was desperately trying to hide
her bare breasts. She had a relatively small bust, and, in her
younger years, she had been extremely self-conscious about her
lack of size.
"Put your arms down, Cindy, and let everyone see your little
titties."
She desperately wanted to resist the order, but she had no choice.
Reluctantly, she dropped her hands to her side.
The applause, whistles, and laughter of the crowd convinced her
that her fears had been unfounded. The crowd found her small but
nicely shaped breasts more than adequate.
But the cheering didn't last long. She was still wearing her
skirt, and the crowd was anxious to see more.
She sighed. The skirt was next. Her panties would be revealed....
Maybe she could try arguing. Perhaps Cindy the coed had been
a spoiled princess who had deserved a humiliating lesson in
submission. But Cynthia had carefully crafted a new life for
herself, and dumping her back into prison like yesterday's trash
was senselessly cruel.
If argument didn't work, she could try to bribery...with an offer
of power, or money, or perhaps even sex.
But she knew that it all would be futile. The Sheriff's illicit
activities had made him a fortune, and, within his domain, his
power was absolute. As for sex, he was now free to use her any
way he wished.
"Skirt in the box, young lady. Stop dawdling. You're not Queen
of the State anymore."
She knew he was right; her past would mean nothing in prison. Even
as she wondered who her fellow inmates would be, she knew it was
irrelevant. They would be beautiful, and innocent, and helpless.
The details of their previous identities would be unimportant once
they reached the prison farm. No one would care if they were
doctors, or lawyers, or professors, or even movie stars.
No one would care that the cute blonde numbered 5314-4812-6493 had
once been the wife of the governor....
"Skirt off...NOW!" the Sheriff rasped.
She unzipped the skirt. Closing her eyes, she let the expensive
garment slide slowly down her legs and flutter to the floor.
The Sheriff's loud guffaw burned in her ears. "Well, lookee here!"
he chortled. "Little Cindy put on her HAPPY PANTS! It's just like
old times! Even her underpants are glad to see me!"
At that moment, Cynthia's persona crumbled. She was no longer the
wife of the governor. She became Cindy once again, the foolish
young woman in the happy pants.
The men in the window quickly caught onto the joke as well, and the
heckling came thick and fast.
"See, I told you she likes it. Even her underpants are laughing!"
"I imagine anyone who sees her in those will 'Have a Nice Day!'"
"If I got to nestle up against THAT all day, I'd smiling too!"
"From that big wet spot in the front, I'd say they were crying!"
"Maybe that's tears of joy!"
Desperate to end the lewd jokes about her ludicrous underwear,
Cindy quickly slipped off her lacy garter belt and rolled her
stockings down her legs.
Once again closing her eyes, she paused, and then quickly stripped
her wet underpants down and off.
"I told you she was a natural blonde. You owe me a dime."
"Isn't that the sweetest little honey pot you ever saw?"
"Bet she's tight as a tick!"
"A little more fur than I like...."
"Me, too. But the Sheriff'll trim her down."
That last comment made Cindy cringe. The Sheriff had shaved her
after her initial arrest, and it had been one of the most
humiliating moments of her life. She considered her delicate sex
sacrosanct, and the idea of him casually ordering her shearing was
unspeakably demeaning. When she had been released from prison,
Cindy had vowed that she would never again let a man have that
kind of power over her.
She used the portion of her underpants that was still dry to wipe
down her soaking crotch and blot the beads of wetness running down
her thighs. In the process, she spread her wetness over every inch
of the scanty garment.
The Sheriff carefully gripped the sopping garment by the corner
between his thumb and forefinger as if he were handling a
particularly distasteful object. He held it up over his head
for the men in the window to see, and then teasingly pinched his
nose shut, as if the odor were unbearable.
Cindy felt herself flush. It was bad enough that he could smell
her scent; did he have to TELL everyone about it?
The Sheriff removed the hateful plastic bag from his pocket, and,
with a practiced air, dropped the panties into the dead center of
the bag.
He sealed the bag and gave the panties a playful squeeze. Cindy
grimaced as she noticed the tiny drops of moisture clinging
to the sides of the bag, mocking her.
The Sheriff carefully positioned the shameful panty bag on top of
her clothing in the crate as if it were a cherry on his sundae.
She shuddered as he walked the carton to the front window. He
carefully arranged the tag on her bag so that her name and
incarceration date were clearly visible for everyone in the crowd.
Cindy was standing naked in the window, with one arm covering her
breasts and the other her crotch. But it was the lewd smiles and
giggles as the men got their first close up of her shamefully wet
underpants that was made her blush deepen.
In the days to come, anyone passing by the front window could look
at those underpants and know instantly that a randy slut named
Cindy had been arrested and imprisoned. There would be no pretense
of modesty or dignity left to her. The shameful evidence would be
on display for all to see.
The Sheriff walked back and resumed his seat. "I think you know
what's next, don't you Cindy?" he asked, quietly.
Cindy said nothing, but nodded and stared down at her toes
scrunched up on the cold tile floor.
******************************
Part 4: The Stirrups
"A woman looks so vulnerable in the stirrups," the Sheriff mused.
"She looks so helpless...so...exposed. It doesn't matter how
powerful or confident a woman was when she arrived. Once we strip
her out of her clothes and put her bare feet in the air, she
blushes like a teenager. Of course I imagine that all those horny
guys looking directly between her legs has something to do with
it."
"Please, Sheriff, don't put me up on the table!" Cindy pleaded, her
hand covering her crotch in a futile attempt at modesty. "I swear
I don't have any contraband," she sniveled, her voice cracking with
emotion. "I give you my word."
He paused as if considering the situation. "Well, under ordinary
circumstances, I MIGHT be willing to give you a break, seeing as
how you're the wife of the governor and all. I mean, there
certainly is no reason to make this procedure any more humiliating
than necessary," he said, piously.
Cindy despised the Sheriff's hypocrisy; if he was so concerned with
the delicate sensibilities of the women he "processed," why didn't
he take two minutes to hang a curtain in the front window? Why did
he position the table so that a woman's most private secrets were
exposed to pedestrian traffic? And why, oh why, were her
underpants sitting in a clear plastic bag on public display?
She desperately wanted to retort, but instead she just stared
meekly at the floor with her left arm shielding her breasts and
her right hand cupping her crotch.
A few minutes ago, Cynthia would have told the Sheriff exactly what
she thought of him. But the buck-naked woman shivering in the
middle of the Sheriff's office was in no position to tell anyone
anything. If the meek and humble acceptance of the Sheriff's
"mercy" saved her from the shameful exposure of the exam table,
then Cindy was willing to swallow her pride and pay the price.
"I might be willing to give you a break, Cindy.... But I do have
to consider the accusation that Judy made about you trying to sneak
money into my jail."
"It's not true!" Cindy lied. "Judy has always hated me!" She
looked up at him with pleading eyes. Although Judy did hate her,
the accusation by her spiteful aide was true. But what the Sheriff
didn't know wouldn't hurt him....
"Before you continue, Cindy, I think you should take a look at the
cameras I have mounted all over the ceiling. You were standing in
front of the exam table when you were talking with Judy, so it
should be a simple matter to rewind the tape and see if you gave
her any money. Would you like me to do that, Cindy?"
She looked up; there were cameras in every corner, besides a camera
pointing at the shower, and two aimed at the exam table. She could
see the red lights blinking; the Sheriff had doubtlessly recorded
every humiliating moment of Cindy's tumble from patrician wife to
jailhouse sleaze.
"Do you remember what happens to prisoners who lie, Cindy?" he
said, softly.
"They-they get the...the strap!" Cindy replied, clenching her
bottom cheeks at the thought.
"That's right, Cindy. Naughty girls who lie to the Sheriff get
their britches taken down for a fanny tanning. Of course, in your
case, we wouldn't even have to take down your pants, would we?" he
chuckled. "Now, do you want to tell me what really happened, or
should I get the tape? Be careful how you answer. Liars sometimes
find it difficult to sit."
She paused and fidgeted awkwardly under his probing gaze. "J-judy
was telling the truth, sir," Cindy finally admitted. "I did try to
sneak the money in."
"Liar, Liar, pants on fire!" he teased. "But it's better that you
admitted it, Cindy. That way I can get your punishment out of the
way before we send you to the farm."
Cindy looked up with frantic eyes as the Sheriff said "your
punishment." He smiled as he noted her supple bottom cheeks
tensing and squirming in anticipation.
"Now, given what you just told me, do you still think I should
exempt you from your cavity search? Do you think I should break
the rules for you and simply take YOUR WORD that you aren't
carrying contraband?"
Cindy stared at the floor and said nothing.
"Do you think I should treat you like the wife of the governor?
Why should I, given that you just tried to smuggle contraband
into my jail?"
Cindy stared at the floor. The logic of the Sheriff's argument
was inescapable.
"How do you think I should treat you, Cindy?" he repeated. "Has
your good behavior earned you special privileges, or should I
treat you like any other common criminal?"
"Like...like a common criminal, sir," she admitted, her voice
barely audible.
"Like a common criminal," the Sheriff echoed. "I agree, Cindy, and
that is EXACTLY how I'm going to treat you, as long as you're under
my authority."
"Yes, sir," Cindy murmured.
"So tell me, Cindy, what should I do with you now?"
"You should search me, sir," she replied, softly.
"Should I search you in the back room? Remember, I'm not asking
what you WANT. I'm asking if your behavior so far today warrants
any special favors. And I want you to be honest with me, Cindy,
because...?"
"Because liars get the strap, sir."
"That's right -- because liars get the strap. Now, do you think I
should search you in back, or do you think I should put you up on
the table, and search you where everyone can see? They've all been
waiting there patiently. Don't you think these upstanding citizens
have a fundamental right to see justice done?"
There was a long pause as she considered the situation. She
desperately wanted to be searched in private; the idea that
those leering rednecks out front had a "fundamental right" to
watch her shameful examination was absurd. But, from the
Sheriff's perspective, the men in the window were the bedrock
of society, and Cindy had no legal rights worth considering.
The search would simply involve another little tease paying her
debt to society.
After a lengthy deliberation, Cindy reluctantly entered her plea.
"You should put me up on the table, sir. You should put me up on
the table so that everyone can see."
"And why should I do that, Cindy? Don't you deserve special
treatment?"
"No, sir," she replied, almost choking on the words. "I should be
treated like a common criminal. I-I AM a common criminal, and
that's how I should be treated."
"That's right, Cindy; you're just another common criminal. You're
just another cute little piece of jailhouse poon, about to hop up
onto the table for her search. So don't be thinking that you are
better than anyone. This is who you are, and the sooner you accept
it, the easier things will be for you."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, be a good little girl and hop up onto the table," he said,
talking down to her once again in his "I know best" tone.
Cindy paused. "Could I...take my shower first?"
"Well, ordinarily I might let you wash up," he said, thoughtfully.
"But you're pretty messy down there, and letting you wash up would
spoil the show. Once everyone sees what a hot little number you
are, they'll be lining up for pony rides at the truck stop. No,
we're going to have to put you on the table first, Cindy.
advertising is good for business!"
Cindy was horrified at the thought the soft flesh she now held
cupped in her hand was part of the Sheriff's "business." But her
squeamishness was irrelevant; she was here to take orders, and her
dignity mattered to no one but her. Reluctantly, she sat on the
exam table and scooted backward.
"That's good," the Sheriff said, soothingly. "No, let me put the
table up in back. I want everyone to be able to see the look on
your face during the examination."
He adjusted the table into a "reading in bed" position so that she
would face the huge crowd in the window. She leaned back and put
her hands on the sides of the table as he ordered. Her entire
front was exposed to the crowd, but she was still in the sitting
position, with her legs clenched tightly together.
The crowd was enormous, but silent. Cindy scanned her expectant
audience with dread. Their smiling faces and breathless attention
told her that her creamy thighs would not be clenched together for
much longer.
The Sheriff stood directly in front of Cindy and gave her a wicked
smile. "That's good, Cindy. Are you comfortable?" His voice
simply oozed false concern.
She swallowed and nodded nervously. She hated these cat-and-mouse
games! Why didn't he just get it over with?
"That's good." He teasingly ran his finger up her bare leg. "We
want you to be comfortable, don't we?"
Cindy trembled. The suspense was awful.
He smiled, continuing to run his finger up her shin, over her knee,
and up her bare thigh. At long last, he paused and said, softly,
"Let's get those pretty little feet of yours up into the stirrups,
shall we?"
She glanced at the leering faces in the huge crowd, and then she
looked back at the Sheriff. "Please...you can't! I'm BEGGING you.
They'll see EVERYTHING!"
She felt her face turn beet red as she made her final, shameful
admission. "Don't make me spread my legs, sir. I am SO WET!"
He looked down at her unsympathetically. "I already let you wipe
yourself. If you're wet AGAIN, that's really your own fault.
You're worse than an alley cat in heat.
"Besides, maybe you'll think of that before you violate the law in
my town again. You fancy pants professional women drive around in
your expensive cars like you own the place, talking on your cell
phones and making right turns on red, even though I always hated
that law. It isn't until it's time to put your feet into the
stirrups, with everyone watching, that you suddenly get all
contrite.
"Well, you ain't going to lawyer your way out of this one,
Goldilocks!" he said, contemptuously. "Spread 'em...high
and wide!"
Cindy stared at him for several seconds. Her heart was pounding;
her mind was racing. She tried to move her foot, but, as she
peered over the Sheriff's shoulder at the grinning men, her muscles
turned to jelly.
He regarded her twitching foot and smiled indulgently. "That's all
right, Cindy. I'll help you. Just leave it up to the Sheriff."
She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as he gently lifted
her left foot into the air and placed it in the stirrup. He was
standing directly in front of her, blocking the men's view, but
she still tried to cross her right thigh over her exposed crotch.
The subterfuge only lasted for a few seconds. She felt dizzy as
the smiling Sheriff slowly reached down and gently positioned her
right foot in the other stirrup.
The stirrups were spread obscenely wide, and she was mortified
when he peered directly down into her exposed, wet sex. Her only
comfort was that the tubby Sheriff was now standing directly
between her legs, totally blocking the crowd's view. She could
see the watchers jostling for position, craning their necks in
order to see her hidden treasures.
Through the glass, she could hear the men shouting at the Sheriff
to move out of the way.
He took her right big toe and playfully wiggled it. "This little
piggy came to the Sheriff's office to report somebody's drunk
driving," he said, in a coochy-coochy-coo tone.
"And this little piggy ended up working in the town brothel!
"And this little piggy was paroled by the Sheriff!
"And this stupid little piggy came back to lecture the Sheriff
about prison reform. Can you believe how STUPID that little piggy
was?
"And this little piggy had to spread her legs in front of the
entire town, so everyone could see what a horny, wet, disgusting
little piglet she really was...."
"Please! Examine me if you have to! But don't move! They'll see
everything!"
"I have to go to the other side of the room and get my rubber
gloves, Cindy.... And I need to wash my hands. I couldn't
examine a fine, upstanding young lady such as yourself without
washing my hands first.
"Now, I want you to keep your cute little feet in the stirrups
while I get ready," he said, running his finger over her cringing
bare foot. "If you don't keep your feet up in the air, I'll just
have to strap you down."
"But...the men in the window! They'll see...see how wet I am!"
"That's right. As soon as I move, everyone will see that you're
not the wholesome little goody-goody you pretend to be. Everyone
will know that you're a randy bitch in heat, and that the truck
stop is the only fit place for the likes of you. After all, we
can't have a hot little minx running around fully dressed like a
respectable woman, can we? Letting you mix with real LADIES would
be indecent.
"It's important that everyone knows exactly what you are, Cindy.
And it's important that you know that they know. So just wait
here, and I'll be right back."
The hooting and applause as the Sheriff abandoned his post was
deafening. Cindy's exposure was greeted like the winning touchdown
in the Super Bowl, and the comments from the window burned in her
ears:
"Here, pussy, pussy, pussy!"
"Isn't that the cutest little hole you've ever seen?"
"I'd love to have a piece of that!"
"Don't worry...we all will!"
"Can you believe how wet she is? She looks like she's ready to
take on the whole town."
"She'll get her chance soon!"
"Now I see why her underpants were so happy."
"What a slut!"
"The field hands are really going to have a time with this little
cutie!"
"And the truckers! I bet word is out over the CB already!"
Cindy stared at the ceiling as the men vulgarly discussed her
shamefully wet sex as if it were the prize in a box of crackerjack.
There was no discussion of her humiliation or any acknowledgment
of her sudden tumble from spoiled dilettante to instant porn star.
There wasn't a sympathetic face in the crowd. She didn't blame
them; the wetness of her sex made it clear that she was getting
exactly what she deserved.
She looked over her shoulder and watched the Sheriff slowly lather
up and methodically wash his hands as the crowd discussed her
anatomy in pornographic detail. She squirmed helplessly as they
commented on the silkiness of her pubic hair and the luscious look
of her inner thighs. She looked up in helpless frustration at the
perfectly positioned video cameras recording every shameful second
of her indecent exposure.
At last the Sheriff finished. The crowd immediately fell into a
hushed silence as he expertly removed a rubber glove from the box
on the table.
With a speed and precision born of years of practice, he
effortlessly snapped the skintight rubber glove onto his
pudgy hand.
He carefully positioned himself to Cindy's left so as not to
block the crowd's view. She flinched as he teasingly ran his
latex-covered finger down the lips of her drenched sex. "I
think we can forget about the lubricant," he noted. "If we get
you any wetter, I'll need to get a snorkel."
Cindy shuddered as she felt him slip first one, then two fingers
deep into her hot wetness. "Goodness! You're tighter than my
glove." he observed. He used his thumb to teasingly rub the area
around her clitoris as his fingers slowly and methodically began
sliding in and out and from side to side.
He slowly...slowly...slowly explored every inch of her wetness
as he drove her closer...closer...closer to the brink.
Cindy looked out at the crowd. Some people were smiling; others
were gazing intently as the Sheriff slowly masturbated the blushing
woman for their amusement. She tried to resist, but the teasing
fingers were relentless. She wiggled like a fish out of water as
the Sheriff exposed the most intimate secrets of female response
to the attentive male audience.
She felt like a traitor to women everywhere as she exploded into
orgasm. But the hand kept going, and so did Cindy. Even the
sneering voices from the window did nothing to ease her passion.
"Look...she's actually cumming!"
"Are you sure?"
"I can see her hole twitching! See those little spasms?"
"And look at her nipples! She's hotter than a pistol."
"And look! She's cumming AGAIN! Can you believe it?"
"What a slut! Look at her go!"
The men's voices disappeared as she experienced wave after wave of
pleasure. She only gradually became aware of the red magic marker
that the Sheriff was using on her now.
Cindy bit her lip. The Sheriff's tiny marks denoted how much of
her pubic hair was going to be sheared off when she reached the
jail. "Please," she pleaded. "Don't shave me. I'll do anything
you say! Just let me keep my hair!"
"I'll let you keep a little patch of fuzz in front," he chuckled.
That's the way most of the customers seem to like it. Besides,
you need to be able to wipe up quick between visitors."
She realized that shaving the most intimate portion of her anatomy
was now simply a business decision. The "product" needed to be
kept neat, clean, and pleasing to the customers. Shaving her was
no big deal, really. No different than mowing the lawn....
She was still in a daze when the Sheriff ordered her up onto all
fours.
"Not that way, Princess," he said. "Put your face on the table,
and spread your legs...WIDE!"
She didn't mind putting her head down, but she didn't want to
spread her legs. The humbling pose would expose everything she
had to the jeers of the crowd....
But she knew she had no choice.
She tried to ignore the cruel taunts from the crowd as her rear
porthole was exposed for public viewing:
"And I thought her other hole was tight!"
"How'd you like to slip inside that?"
"I hope the Sheriff gives her an enema."
"No time. He wants to get her out to the prison farm while it's
still light enough to put her on the chain gang."
"I'm going to enjoy watching them put her cute little buns to work."
Cindy watched nervously as the Sheriff slowly greased his finger.
She hadn't had anal sex since her release from prison. After all,
nice girls didn't let boys touch them THERE.
But she wasn't a nice girl anymore.
Her eyes grew wide with shame and humiliation as she felt the
Sheriff playfully tickle her rear hole with the tip of his gloved
finger. She winced as he slowly...slowly...slowly worked it in to
the first knuckle...then the second...then all the way in. She
wiggled and twisted as he slowly began rotating it in a farcical
imitation of an "examination."
"Look at her squirm; I think she likes it!"
"Anything that gets that cute little ass moving can't be all bad."
"Of course the little piglet likes it. She'd like anything you
stuck in one of her tight little holes."
The comments echoed in Cindy's mind as she clenched her teeth and
waited for the shameful probing to finish.
The Sheriff pulled his finger out with a comical popping! sound
before slapping her hard across the bottom.
"On your feet, convict. It's time for your scrub down -- you
stink like a shore leave brothel. I can't even take you to prison
until you wash the juices off yourself."
Cindy obediently scampered into the cinder-block shower area. The
open shower stall was small, curtainless, and utterly devoid of
privacy. She grimaced as the freezing cold water came out in a
weak trickle.
"Face front, convict," the Sheriff barked. "I need to watch, to
make sure you wash properly. Scrub EVERYWHERE, or I might ask
some of your admirers to give you a hand."
She didn't have to be told twice, obediently turning and facing
the window. The crowd chatted merrily as she used the coarse
bristle brush and the burning, disinfectant soap to wash her hair,
her breasts, her legs, and her crotch. She faced front the entire
time, except when the Sheriff ordered her to turn around to scrub
her butt.
A few hours before, the thought of taking a shower in front of
crowd of leering, lip-smacking men would have been preposterous.
But now the humiliating indignity of the jailhouse shower seemed
oddly appropriate.
The water was cold, and the rough grainy soap and harsh brush were
in sharp contrast to the soft sponges and sweet smelling oils she
normally used as she luxuriated in the tub.
The shower wasn't designed for comfort or relaxation. She was a
convicted criminal, and she was there to be disinfected.
The Sheriff tossed her a steel wool pad and ordered her to scrub
the nail polish off of her recently clipped nails. Rubbing the
elegant polish off of her delicate hands was easy, given the
roughness of the wool, but her toes were another story. The shower
was too narrow to kneel or sit in, so Cindy was forced to turn and
raise her backside lewdly in the air as she frantically attempted
to scrub her toenails clean.
The awkwardness of the blushing woman's shameful position delighted
the cheering throng.
She had just finished rinsing the soap off her feet when she saw
the Sheriff standing before her in a gas mask. With his left hand
he carried a small green tank that looked like a fire extinguisher;
in his right hand he held a nozzle that looked like a garden hose.
She looked at the Sheriff in disbelief. It was the delousing hose!
"You can't be serious!" she gasped. "I'm the wife of the governor.
I don't have lice!"
"It's standard procedure, Convict," the Sheriff replied, coldly.
"We've washed the stink off you, and now it's time for you to be
disinfected. Put your hands on top of your head before I cuff
you to the overhead beam."
She shot him an angry glare; they both knew that this was totally
unnecessary. But she obeyed, nevertheless.
The burning stink from the noxious spray forced her to close her
eyes. The Sheriff ran the powerful jet over her body, carefully
directing the spray under each breast, down each leg, and over
her exposed pussy.
"Bend over and put your hands flat on the floor, he ordered.
"Spread your cheeks!"
She tried to ignore the jeering taunts of the men as the Sheriff
directed the humiliating spray at her pussy and bottomhole.
"Douse her good, Sheriff! Who knows where that dirty little snatch
of hers has been."
"I want her good and clean before I mount her."
"Woof! Woof!"
"Maybe we can get her a flea collar, too."
Cindy did indeed feel like a dog that had just been put through
flea dip. She was relieved to see the Sheriff put down the
delousing tank and turn on the ventilator fan, which was designed
to vent the noxious fumes.
He roughly tossed the prison uniform onto the table and returned
to his office. He hated the stink of the delousing spray and
always let the prisoner dress alone as the fumes vented.
Cindy slipped on the tight white cotton panties, form fitting
t-shirt, and shorts. To her relief, the crowd started to
dissipate a bit as she dressed; obviously some felt the best
part of the show was over.
As she had feared, the shirt clung to her breasts like a second
skin. She quickly folded her arms over her chest as she waited
for the Sheriff's return.
The situation was slightly ridiculous. The Sheriff was in his
office with the door closed. Cindy wasn't wearing handcuffs,
and the front door was only a few feet away.
Escaping would be trivially easy....
But where was she going to go? She was dressed in a humiliatingly
scanty prison outfit with her inmate number on the front. Even if
she did somehow find other clothes to wear, the bracelet on her
wrist identified her to the world as a convicted criminal. And
the Sheriff could use the tracking device to hunt her down like
an animal.
And then there was the small matter of the town itself. She
recalled from her previous "visit" that the townspeople treated
the female prisoners with undisguised contempt. Even the women,
from whom Cindy would have expected sympathy, made it clear that,
as far as they were concerned, the female inmates were trash who
were getting exactly what they deserved.
The skimpy uniform and shameful tracking bracelet would identify
her to the world as a randy bitch fresh from the prison farm. The
second she was spotted, the townspeople would put her back where
she belonged.
Escape was so close...and yet so far.
Although she still stank from the disinfectant, the fan had
entirely dispersed the gasses by the time the Sheriff opened
the door and re-emerged from his office.
His return meant that Cindy's processing was almost over, and she
felt strangely relieved to see him. In a few minutes, her shameful
ordeal would be over.
But then she noticed that he was carrying the razor strap. She
had planned to spend the next month tanning by the pool at the
Governor's Mansion. But the Sheriff clearly had a different type
of "tanning" in mind....
******************************
Part 5: Punished
"Looks like Miss Sassy Pants is going to get a lesson in manners,"
one of the men said through the glass.
"She won't be so uppity after the Sheriff's waxed that tight little
bottom of hers."
"Bet you a quarter she snivels like a little kid."
"You're on!"
"Spank her out here, Sheriff, so we can watch."
The Sheriff looked at the men in the window and smiled. For a
horrifying moment, Cindy thought the Sheriff might actually spank
her in the window. But then he looked back at her and tossed his
head in a casual gesture meaning "in my office."
She obediently scampered away from the window...and her audience,
sighing and hooting in disappointment. Though relieved that her
spanking would be administered privately, she knew it was not out
of courtesy to her. Lickings were always handed out in the
Sheriff's Office.
She was just another cute little jailbird, and her tanning was no
different from the rest.
The Sheriff's next words reinforced her tiny role in the long,
unbroken chain. "Okay, Convict, you know the drill. Assume
the position."
Although it had been more than 10 years, she instantly remembered
what "the position" was.
She bent over and rested her pelvis on the smooth spot on the front
of the Sheriff's desk. Her stubby fingernails effortlessly slipped
into well-worn grooves created by the frantic scratching of the
countless women who had preceded her. Cindy had made her own tiny
contribution to the desk's gradual erosion many years before, and
she would do so again today. But she knew her humbling addition
to the notches on the desk would be memorable only to her. To the
Sheriff, it was just another fanny-tanning.
She braced herself for the first blow.
"You know the routine, girl," the Sheriff said, peevishly. "Drop
your britches."
It was bad enough that she was forced to dress like Daisy-May; now
she was actually being ordered to drop her "BRITCHES." He was
talking to her like she was some farmer's daughter being taken out
to the woodshed for a switching.
Drop her britches! Cindy gritted her teeth at the insolent
familiarity of the Sheriff's command. He was acting as if
pulling down her pants for a spanking was the most natural
thing in the world.
But, as she considered the situation, she realized that his tone
was correct. An hour before, his actions would have been an
outrage. But she was a convict now, and dropping her pants for
discipline would be part of her daily routine for the next month.
She winced. The slightest hint of pride or rebellion would trigger
an underpants-down licking. And the guards were never particular
about who was watching.
The spankings stung, but they were not brutal. The goal of the
spankings was not pain but submission. By making the adult women
"drop their britches" like naughty children, they emphasized their
absolute authority.
She raised herself up slightly off the desk and unsnapped her
shorts. The Sheriff enjoyed the sound of the zipper being pulled
down and the spectacle of the proud beauty wiggling her tight
shorts off her fanny.
She had barely settled back down onto the desk when she got the
next command. "I want to spank YOU, not your underpants. Drop
your drawers."
Cindy actually had remembered that the spankings were always given
bare-bottom. (How could she forget?) But she had hoped that he
would spare her this final indignity. But that was a futile hope.
So she once again raised her hips. The Sheriff let out a whistle
as she rolled her tight underpants down. Despite her earlier
exposure, she still felt herself blush at his humiliating whistle
of approval. No matter how many times she stripped for this man,
each time was as bad as the first.
She shook her leg a little so that her underpants joined her shorts
in a shameful little puddle around her feet. Then she sank back
down onto the desk and arched her fanny up into her "proper
position." She knew that the methodical Sheriff always rigorously
followed procedure. A girl's bare fanny had to be presented
correctly for each kiss of the razor strap.
She dug her fingers into the desk as she felt him teasingly run
the strap over her bottom. "Now this is a bottom worth taking
time with. All soft, and smooth, and round. I'm sure glad I got
this strap oiled up. It'll wrap around those curves real nice."
Cindy squirmed helplessly as he teased her upturned fanny with the
strap. "Do you still want to lecture me about prison reform?" he
asked, mockingly.
"No, sir."
She was beside herself with nervous anticipation as he continued to
measure out the strokes against her defenseless backside. "Do you
still think you're smarter than me, Cindy?"
Cindy KNEW she was smarter than the Sheriff. But, as she felt the
ominous strap menacingly caress her defenseless and utterly exposed
backside, she decided to swallow her pride.
"No. Um...I mean, 'No, sir!'" she said, quickly correcting herself.
"I think you're lying," he replied quietly. "I think you DO think
you're smarter than me. Why else would you think you could smuggle
money into my jail? Do you think you're smarter than me, girl?"
"No, sir, I...." She was interrupted by the sound of the razor
strap cutting through the air. Her eyes flew open wide, and her
neck jerked back. The strap burned like fury! The first stroke
had been expertly placed directly across the dead center of her
exposed cheeks. As he had promised, the strap had snapped wickedly
around her soft, curvy bottom.
"Liar, Liar, pants on fire," he said, in a sing-song voice. "You
do think you're smarter than me. Is it because of your fancy
education? Is that what makes you think you're better than
everybody else?"
SNAP!
"No, sir!" Cindy shrieked, as the second stroke slapped against
her bottom. "I know I came into town thinking I was better than
everyone else. But you showed me I'm not! I'm just another little
jailbird."
"That's right, Cindy. You're just another little jailbird. And
little jailbirds don't get to keep money in their cages, do they?"
SNAP!
The next stroke was directly below the others, and she immediately
sang out her reply. "NO, SIR! I have to give you ALL my money.
I have to hand in all the tips I get up on stage...and all the
money I earn at the truck stop, too. I won't hold out on you,
sir."
"That's right, Cindy." He teasingly dangled the strap against her
flinching fanny. "Cute little jailbirds like you aren't allowed
to have money." He chuckled. "You might get fancy ideas about
flying away."
SNAP!
He laid the stripe on Cindy's "sit down" spot, the crease between
her buttocks and thighs -- an exquisitely sensitive area for
spanking. She would be remembering that stroke for days to come....
"No, sir!" she sobbed. "I won't try to fly away. I'll be a good
girl...and I'll hand all my money in...and I won't ever try to
escape."
"That's right, Cindy. You're going to hand in every penny.
Because, if you don't, you're going to get another dose of
strap oil. Now, one last question. If you don't have any
money, how will you buy favors from the guards? How did you
used to get favors?"
Cindy mumbled her response. It wasn't loud enough to suit the
Sheriff.
SNAP!
The stroke was directly across the tops of her thighs. His skill
with the strap was legendary, and he knew that stroke was essential
to prevent the prisoner from shifting her weight to her thighs when
she was in a sitting position. A good spanking left no part of the
fanny untouched, and the inability to sit comfortably would be a
lasting reminder of the price of disobedience.
"BLOW-JOBS, SIR!" Cindy shouted through gritted teeth.
"Be more specific, Cindy." He lightly tapped the target area with
the strap. "Tell me exactly what you'll do."
Cindy dug her fingers deeper into the desk as she blurted out her
answer. "If I want anything, I'll beg for it! I'll get on my
knees, and unzip their pants, and put their things in my mouth.
I'll use my tongue...to pleasure them, and I'll make it real sweet.
I'll suck them dry!"
"That's right, Cindy. That's exactly what you'll do. A girl with
a hot little mouth and a tight little ass can always get an extra
blanket, can't she?" the Sheriff asked, with a lewd chuckle.
"Yes, sir!" she agreed, quickly. "Please...don't spank me any
more, Sheriff. I'll be a...a good girl. I'll do anything you
say."
He had laid on the strokes expertly; Cindy wouldn't be sitting
comfortably for several days. Her sore backside wouldn't make
her experience at the truck stop that night particularly pleasant.
But most of the customers liked it when the girls wiggled their
backsides and moaned....
Of course, she could always try to entice the men to do it
doggie-style. But the sight of her cute bare bottom poking up
into the air would doubtlessly inspire some of the rednecks to
use the poor girl in an unwholesome way.
The Sheriff was looking forward to seeing the look on her
aristocratic face the first time one of the hillbillies
buggered her. THAT videotape would be a keeper!
Inspired, he lightly brushed the strap against her bare cheeks.
"Speaking of sweet tail, Cindy, you know how seriously I take my
business at the truck stop. I never give the customers less than
the best."
Cindy shuddered. She knew where this conversation was going. But
what could she do? The Sheriff was still teasing her fanny with
the strap as a reminder of what would happen if she resisted.
She remained mute as he roughly kicked her legs apart, completely
exposing her.
"I want you to know that I'm not going to get any enjoyment out of
this, Cindy," he said, solemnly. "It's all part of my job. Do you
remember how I refer to this, Cindy?"
She didn't look up, but she rasped out her reply as she heard the
Sheriff unzipping his pants behind her.
"Sampling the merchandise, sir."
"That's right, Cindy. I'm sampling the merchandise. I have to
find out if that sticky little honeypot of yours is as sweet as
I remember."
He let out a satisfied groan as he slowly worked his way inside
the bent-over prisoner. Cindy had improved with age: humping that
frightened college student had been fun, but sliding it in and
out of the governor's snooty wife was even better.
The thought of the Sheriff inside her was disgusting, but Cindy was
still supercharged from her shameful experience in the window. As
it turned out, the Sheriff came quickly, but Cindy came even
quicker....
She lay over the desk for several minutes, her spirit broken. By
the time the mortified prisoner had mustered the dignity to pull
up her pants, the Sheriff was already preparing her transport
restraints.
The heavy steel shackles would be used to restrain her on her way
to the farm. They both knew that the medieval chains were
unnecessary. The Sheriff towered over Cindy, and there was no
chance for her to escape.
But the indignity of being marched out the front door in chains and
a humiliating brief prison uniform would be the final step of her
metamorphosis into a helpless prisoner. The contrast between her
triumphal entrance in her crisp power suit and her shameful exit
in her scandalous prison uniform would be unmistakable...and
delightful.
Cindy winced as the Sheriff tightened the shackles around her
ankles and attached the chain to the snugly cinched belt around
her waist. When the final restraint was in place, he pushed her
shoulder. She awkwardly stumbled forward.
She hadn't noticed that the front door of the inner office was
slightly ajar. Cindy flushed as she wondered if any of the men
standing outside had heard any of her degrading remarks during her
spanking.
The chorus of laughter, applause, and catcalls removed any doubt:
"Do you still think you're smarter than everyone, girl?"
"Are you going to be a good little girl, or do you need another
spanking?"
"Hey, Sheriff, is she as sweet and tight as she sounds?"
"I hope you gave her an extra little flourish from me!"
"Little thief got what she deserved! I hope you tanned her good!"
"It was MY money," Cindy muttered under her breath.
"No, it wasn't," the Sheriff said. "Convicts don't own nothing.
Everything they got belongs to me. The sooner you realize that,
the easier it'll be for you."
She said nothing, choosing instead to concentrate on not tripping
as she awkwardly stumbled towards the exit.
The Sheriff marched his prisoner directly through the crowd of men,
making no effort to protect her from the wolf whistles and fanny
pinches of her admirers. He paused for a moment in front of the
office to let Cindy look in the window.
The lower right hand corner of the window contained an old poster
of Cynthia in her prim and proper role as the Governor's Wife. The
smiling woman in the photo was wearing an elegant charcoal suit and
an expensive pearl necklace.
It was a stunning contrast to what Cindy was wearing now.
She winced when she read the poster's headline:
ABSTINENCE, SELF-CONTROL, AND FAMILY VALUES
A Speech by Cynthia Long, Wife of the Governor
Immediately to the left of this poster was the black crate that
contained her clothing. The box was arranged so that the tag
faced the window, paralleling the name on the poster:
Long, Cindy
#5314-4812-6493
As a sign of her liberation, she had kept her maiden name in public
life. And that tiny act of liberal defiance meant that everyone
would know the identity of the newest bimbo at the prison farm.
But it was the bagged and shamefully wet underpants on the top of
the carton that horrified Cindy the most.
Her randy wetness was now on display for the world.
The obscene happy faces grinned up mockingly at the mortified
prisoner. As if reading her mind, the Sheriff said, "Aren't
those just the cutest little underpants you ever saw?"
The laughter and whistles from the assembled crowd proved that
everyone else enjoyed the ironic display, even if Cindy didn't:
"Happy pants girls are my favorite!"
"I'm sure the owner of those panties sure has a lot to teach us
about morals."
"Abstinence, too! Why else would her knickers be so juicy?"
"Don't you worry, honey. I'll be by the truck stop tonight to
help you take care of all of those pent-up frustrations."
"Me, too!"
"Me, three!"
"Me, four...."
At last the merriment died down, and the Sheriff began walking his
stumbling prisoner down the street to his waiting squad car.
As they walked down the block, Cindy noticed two women sitting on
a bench at the bus stop. The older of the two women was tall,
thin, and bony, with an angry stare that reminded Cindy of the
"Church Lady" on "Saturday Night Live." The younger, plumper
40-something woman sitting next to her didn't look much happier.
Both women were very nicely dressed, from their elegant if
inexpensive hats down to their immaculate white gloves.
Cindy felt herself blush under the women's angry glare. Just
her luck! Her path would take her DIRECTLY in front of the
wooden bench that the two nasty crones were sitting on. "Why
couldn't the Sheriff have parked his car a little CLOSER?" she
wondered as she awkwardly staggered forward.
She desperately wanted to go in another direction, or at least
cover her protruding nipples and bare legs. But, with her hands
cuffed behind her back and the Sheriff firmly holding her by the
scruff of the neck, she had no choice but to walk ever closer to
the two scowling ladies.
"Little hussy, running around in public like that!" the older woman
sniffed.
"Don't worry, Mother," the portly daughter replied. "The Sheriff's
going to put her exactly where she belongs. She won't be so
anxious to run through town half naked after a few weeks of picking
cotton on the prison farm."
"Maybe hard labor will teach her how to act like a decent,
respectable young lady," the old woman snarled. "There's
nothing wrong with these lazy sluts that sweat and strap oil
won't cure. I'd like to put her to work in backroom at the
store for a few weeks, so she could learn how honest women
earn a living."
"She's way to stupid too take inventory, Mother," the chubby
daughter giggled. "I mean, just look at her! The little bimbo
probably can't even add or subtract."
Cindy ground her teeth in helpless frustration. An hour earlier,
she had been dressed far more elegantly than the two women who
were now looking down their noses at her. She wanted to tell the
bitches about her grades in Honors Calculus in college and about
her years of experience as a tax attorney. But clothes made the
woman. Cindy was now the brainless little airhead she had
struggled her whole life not to be.
"Good afternoon, ladies," the Sheriff said, cordially. "Is the bus
running late again?"
"No, Sheriff," the older woman replied. "We just got here a few
minutes early. Unlike SOME people, we always make sure that we
arrive at the weekly Temperance and Morals Meeting on time."
"Well, good for you. I think it's great that folks like you are
watching out for family values. The work you do is so important."
"Not as important as the work YOU do, Sheriff," the woman replied.
"I don't know what we'd do if we didn't have you to clean the TRASH
off the street," she added, coldly, as she looked the squirming
Cindy up and down with undisguised contempt.
Cindy felt like she had fallen through the looking glass. Cynthia
was one of the state's leading advocates of moral reform, and the
Sheriff ran every bar and brothel in the county. But the two
upstanding citizens were praising him and treating her like trailer
trash.
"Wait a second...I know her," the younger woman said. "That's the
spoiled little princess in the limousine that cut me off at the gas
station this morning. I remember her! She was wearing a fancy
blue suit and sunglasses."
"Well, she doesn't look so highfalutin now," the older woman spat,
contemptuously. "She looks like just another teasing tart to me.
I mean, look at the way she's dressed. Look at how short those
pants are. And she isn't even covering up her chest."
Cindy's uniform pants were scandalously short, but her expensive
and tasteful clothes had been seized as "contraband." It wasn't
her idea to parade down the street like a runaway Victoria's Secret
model.
Her tight t-shirt was tawdry and revealing, and she desperately
wanted to fold her arms over her chest. Her cuffed hands clenched
into helpless fists as she strained against the cold steel in
frustration.
She knew that facts meant nothing to the blue-nosed women who
were scowling at her with such sanctimonious contempt. The
self-righteous women were too busy enjoying their moral
superiority to concern themselves with the injustice of Cindy's
predicament.
She knew exactly what the women thought of little sluts like her.
A few hours earlier, she had shared their view.
"I can even see...her hair!" the younger woman whispered.
Cindy looked down at the front of her pants. To her horror, she
saw that a few stray public hairs were indeed carelessly protruding
from the top of her ultra low-rise cut-offs.
She frantically tried to use her cuffed hands to tug up her jeans,
but it was a futile effort.
When she looked pleadingly at the Sheriff for assistance, he just
winked at her.
She couldn't believe that he was marching her down the street with
her pubic hair on display....
"Little slut!" the older woman said. "She should be horsewhipped!"
"It's amazing what these little tramps wear these days," the
younger woman agreed. "It's simply indecent."
"These women are disgraceful," the Sheriff agreed, piously, as he
ran his finger across the top of Cindy's exposed mound. He
playfully twisted one of the stray hairs in his fingers before
removing it with a painful YANK!
"OWW!" Cindy jumped at the painful plucking, and the two women
burst into laughter.
"That's much better, Sheriff!" the younger woman guffawed. "But I
think you missed a few."
"I have a pair of tweezers," the old crone volunteered,
enthusiastically.
"No, thank you, ladies," the Sheriff said, politely. "They'll
trim her hedge plenty short at the prison farm."
"But I don't want them to shave me!" Cindy cried out as she twisted
away from the Sheriff. She turned to the two women with pleading
eyes. "Please...don't let them shave me.... I just want them to
give me my old clothes back! I know what I must look like. I know
what you must think of me. But you have to believe me. I'm not a
criminal. I'm a decent woman!"
Her outburst was cut short by a sharp slap across her lightly clad
backside. "You speak when you're spoken to, CONVICT," the Sheriff
barked. "These are honest, respectable women, and you have no
right opening your pie hole without permission."
Cindy looked beseechingly at the two women, but saw that there was
no sympathy in their cold, beady eyes. She would receive no help
in THIS town....
"Decent woman, indeed," the younger woman huffed. "Decent women
don't parade down the street with their privates on display."
"What she needs is a good licking!" the older woman said, angrily.
"If I had my way, she wouldn't sit for a week!"
"You'll be pleased to know that I brightened her backside just
a few minutes ago," the Sheriff said in a blasé voice, as if
discussing the weather.
"Probably didn't even feel it through her pants!" the old woman
muttered.
"That's why I always spank on the bare," the Sheriff replied,
cheerfully. "There was nothing between my strap and her bare
fanny."
The Sheriff gripped Cindy by the neck and turned her so that
her backside was facing the two ladies. Both of them smiled
approvingly, and they complimented him on the red splotches
across the tops of Cindy's bare thighs.
"Well, I'm glad to see you're disciplining the little slut
properly, Sheriff," the older woman said, as she grinned up at
the blushing, squirming prisoner. "I certainly hope you mention
to the warden that he should grease the strap thoroughly for this
one."
"I hadn't thought about discussing her discipline with the warden,
but you're absolutely right. I'll tell the warden and the guards
exactly what you said. If she so much as sneezes, she'll be over
the punishment block with her bare buns in the air."
Cindy bit her tongue and she stared down her shoes. It was so
unfair! She would really have to watch her step. Now that she
was a lowly convict, the so-called "decent" women of the town
could sentence her to the shame and pain of the razor strap on
the slightest pretense.
She was furious at the two bitter cows smiling smugly up at her,
but any "back talk" would only make her situation worse.
"I'd say a randy little minx like this one has quite a future ahead
of her at the truck stop," the daughter observed with a cruel smile.
"Yeah, she'll be a hot one," the Sheriff agreed. "We got her soggy
underpants over in the office window, if you want to go see."
"Well, I did want to see if they ever fixed that crack in the
sidewalk," the older woman said, eagerly.
"Yes, and these temperance meetings usually start late anyway," the
daughter agreed. "We can always catch the next bus."
Cindy watched unhappily as two of the town's leading moral pillars
raced each other down the street to see her shamefully wet
underpants.
She tried to lower her sore fanny onto the car seat as gingerly
as possible, but, with her hands cuffed behind her back and the
Sheriff pushing down on the top of her head, a gentle landing
was hopeless.
Her cuffed wrists and ankles made it impossible for her to shift
her weight off her tender backside and thighs. The Sheriff
chuckled as he watched his fidgeting prisoner vainly attempt to
find a comfortable position.
The interstate would be faster, but he would take the scenic
route. Every bump and pothole in the old gravel road would be
an uncomfortable reminder of what happened to naughty girls who
disobeyed the Sheriff....
Cindy's thoughts raced ahead to her "reception" at the prison.
The Sheriff had had his fun; now it was the warden's turn.
Another striptease, another cavity search, another shower,
another delousing. And, after "processing," she would face
an afternoon of backbreaking manual labor, a gang shower, and
a trip to the truck stop.
She shuddered as she imagined the "work clothes" the Sheriff would
pick for her. The scanty chain-gang uniform was awful, but having
to troll for "clients" in her hooker outfit....
Edited by C. Lakewood